


Standing Hollow

by adoraberry



Series: The Tangled Web [1]
Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Mess, Polyamory, Protective Tony Stark, Slavery, Slow Burn, Threesome - M/M/M, Tony Stark Has A Heart, ironspideypool, tony hates slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:01:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 48,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22111495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adoraberry/pseuds/adoraberry
Summary: Peter Parker knows he's one of the lucky ones. He's a Bradley Institute trained slave, the best of the best, and a precious commodity. His enhanced healing even leaves him completely unscarred and unblemished, and more desirable for it.So why doesn't he feel lucky when the rich, eccentric Tony Stark purchases him? He's never been so confused and conflicted in his life, and Tony is no help at all.And then there's Deadpool to contend with. That guy is just straight up crazy.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Tony Stark/Wade Wilson, Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Series: The Tangled Web [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1791799
Comments: 138
Kudos: 590
Collections: SpiderBoi Fics by Egg





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while and I'm a little rusty, so I'd love to hear any feedback and comments you have. 
> 
> Deadpool will appear eventually, I promise. It's a bit of a slow burn, necessary set up, yada yada. Bear with me!

“This is so fucking weird.”

Peter tensed and glanced at the door, relieved to find no guards within sight.

“Why’s it so _quiet_ out there?”

“You’d best be quiet too,” the woman to the boy’s right hissed, also glancing at the door.

The boy’s name was Robert or Robin, something with an R. Peter couldn’t quite recall. He had been added to the roster with the last batch of kids that had come in just last night, all of them drugged and groggy. Peter couldn’t keep track of them all, not that he had tried particularly hard. They would all be going their separate ways this evening anyway, if they were lucky, so there didn’t seem to be a point in learning their names.

“I ain’t never been to a sell that didn’t hurt my ears.” The boy continued, shaking his head once, twice, like a dog shaking off water. He was beautiful, with big chocolate brown eyes, face all sharp angles and chiselled lines. Those doe eyes were unfocused. They had probably given him something for his nerves.

Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to be working. He was going to bring the guards down on them, and no one wanted that. Out of sight, out of mind, that was the mantra of the Institute trained slave.

“This what it’s like for high class slaves, huh?” he said, ignoring as the woman jabbed him with her elbow. “Real _regal_ selling spot. Gotta whisper when you claim your meat?”

There was a smatter of arguing in the people around the boy, hushed reprimands and wagging tongues. The boy subsided into mulish silence.

Peter tried not to think about it. The memories of those places had lessened over the years and he intended to keep it that way. He had hoped he would never be back to market for a good long while, if ever, but his only consolation that at least it was _this_ market. The Walcott Auctions were famous the world over, and high class buyers travelled from far and wide to attend. Even slaves knew the name, and the pressure of being there was enormous.

“If they pay more, do they take more?” Robert-Robin suddenly asked, voice pitched louder than before. The others at his side rushed to quiet him, but Robert-Robin batted them away, insistent. He got to his feet, ungainly as a fawn, and the woman who shushed him earlier rose as well. “If they pay more, they want more! They take more!”

A metal door down the hall clanged open and shut. The woman beside the boy returned to her seat, eyes on the floor. The others followed suit, and soon the only noise was Robert-Robin’s heavy breaths, standing in the middle of them without seeming to realize what was coming.

“I don’t even have any more.” His voice cracked as he spoke.

“You! Sit down!”

The guards, as expected. Peter shut his eyes and bowed his head lower.

“No, it’s too close-” someone else said. There was a murmured conversation at the door, and the sound of someone jogging back the way they had come.

“You, boy, come here.” The door whined open. “Quickly.”

Peter opened his eyes, pulse fluttering, and dared a glance to see. Some awareness had returned to Robert-Robin’s eyes, and with it wariness. But he was obedient even now, distressed and undone, as obedient as anyone who made it this far had to be. He walked forward and stretched out his wrists.

“Sir,” Peter said, gaze locked back on the floor. “The dose was too high for him.”

“Who said that?” The guard demanded, freezing with one hand on the boy’s wrists, the other reflexively touching the top of his baton.

Oh god. Why had he done that? Stupid. So stupid. They didn’t want to hear from him, of course they didn’t, but the boy was obviously silly with drugs… He hadn’t meant anything.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Peter said faintly, rising and folding to his knees, all contrition. His mind whirred like a top, and he gave it a last ditch effort. “We are trained to speak up with information. I didn’t mean to overstep my bounds.” It was even true, in a way.

The guard grunted and peered at him angrily. “This ain’t the Institution. You’ll keep your mouth shut.” He waved a hand to encompass the whole room. “And not a word when you’re on the podium! You remember how the Proctor said to behave up there, or you’ll pay for it.”

Peter bowed his head again and shut his eyes. He didn’t open them again until the door snicked shut and two sets of footsteps walked away. He took a deep breath and returned to his seat, head swimming. Some of them glanced at him, resentful or considering, he wasn’t sure. The reputation of the Institution preceded him.

It wasn’t long after that the door was opened again and the first of them was ushered out. One by one, in an order unknown to those in the room, they came and they took. Peter froze everytime, willing it to be someone else and at the same time wishing his own turn was over already. Finally, half the room empty, it was his turn.

They led him down a dim cement hallway, out through a red curtain, and straight onto the podium with the auctioneer at a stand behind him. His stomach twisted at the sea of people seated before him before the light was adjusted to shine straight into his eyes, blinding him.

“And here we have a very special submission. You won’t see one of these very often, folks. EP623 is privately owned but only a year out of the Bradley Institution’s experimental division.” 

A murmur had gone up as soon as his designation was read out, papers ruffling as people flipped through the auction booklet. Peter wanted to squint against the blinding spotlight but he stayed still, head up, feet shoulder-width apart and hands clasped behind his back.

“Enhanced strength, reflexes, speed, and stamina,” the auctioneer said. “As well as that very useful healing ability that the Bradley Institution has specialized in. EP623 also has the unique ability to climb walls and other surfaces with his bare hands. This submission comes with all this and that famous Bradley obedience, guaranteed. We’ll begin at $20,000.”

Peter didn’t know how much to expect. Was $20,000 reasonable? The Institution had a long waitlist, people waited years to buy from them, but he had never heard how much the going rate was. As the bidding went on, the price rose. Peter’s head spun listening to the bids storming in, slowing then speeding up, until finally the bids were trickling in. Peter was hardly even listening anymore, staring blankly out over the crowd he couldn’t see, trying not to think at all.

“$76,000 going once, going twice, and _sold_!”

Peter blinked, stunned. That was a lot of money. He didn’t know much about it but he knew _that was a lot of money._ The collar around his neck buzzed in warning and he remembered his duties. Unlacing his clenched fingers from behind his back, Peter walked briskly off the stage, just as the Proctor had told them to do.

It was the Proctor himself that Peter found when he exited to the side. He was speaking to an older man in a suit.

“We don’t know, sir,” the man was saying. “We’ve never seen him before.”

“Well find out who he is, or who he works for.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Proctor saw him then, and a smile overtook his face, toothy and wide. “You! Good. Very good up there. Come here and stay still, let me see you. Let me see what $76,000 looks like.”

Peter saw movement on the stage, but before he could fully turn his head to look, the Proctor grabbed his chin in a hard grip, staring him straight in the eyes. The man’s own eyes glittered, body nearly vibrating with energy. Yes, Peter knew, that was a lot of money.

The auctioneer began to speak again on stage. “And here we have BW084. We apologize for the display, but what a display it is, hm? This is all you really need to see for this one anyway, isn’t it?” The crowd laughed.

The Proctor stepped back, releasing his hold, but Peter didn’t dare move a muscle as the man gave him a once over. He snapped at a guard off to the side and muttered something Peter couldn’t catch.

“BW084 is a premium personal slave,” the auctioneer continued, “well trained in the art as well as domestic chores. Ideal for someone who wants a jack of all trades around the house and the bedroom.”

“Off you go,” the Proctor finally said.

Peter took the chance to glance back at the stage before he turned, already knowing who he would find. Robert-Robin lay unconscious on a wheeled, padded tray. He was naked but for a pair of thin black briefs, limbs arranged carefully to display his physique, head tilted just so to the crowd.

Peter turned and walked away down the hallway, the boy’s voice echoing in his mind.

_If they pay more, they want more._

\--

They had sedated him for the trip. It was standard for someone who had never acquired a slave before and Peter was well used to it by now. Time sped by, first in a limo and then in a small private jet. A suited man accompanied him, unamused and disinterested, and Peter was able to sleep blissfully until their arrival, then into another limo.

Where the man lead, Peter followed. The dose they had given him was fairly strong, but it would lessen with time. Peter hated the weaning period, where he was sedated to near-incapacity and then gradually dropped in dosage while his new owner learned how to handle him. Mistakes were more easily absorbed with no consequence to the slave this way, in theory.

Peter remembered every mistake, and always had. He felt every single one, but was helpless to react to it. He had never asked if it was the same for everyone else or something to do with his abilities, there was no point.

And then they had arrived, the limo coming to a stop and the door opening a moment later, the suited man gesturing him out into the crisp evening. “Home sweet home.”

Peter didn’t know what he had expected, but not _this_. A mansion, maybe, with sprawling wings and gardens surrounding the building. He had been in plenty of those. Maybe a more modest house if it was historical, painted in carefully selected and approved colors, original furnishings in every room. That was normal too.

But this? It looked like a business, like a building stuffed with free people working. It towered over him, so many stories Peter couldn’t even guess at how many there were. He had hardly set foot in a building like this in his life.

But where the man lead, Peter followed. 

“Welcome back, sir,” a disembodied voice said as the boarded the elevator.

“Thanks, JARVIS. Can Tony meet me at the top?”

“I shall inquire with Mr Stark.”

Up and up the elevator went, smooth and (presumably) fast. Peter watched the numbers tick up, mesmerized by the movement and the drugs, until they hit 93 and stopped. The door dinged and opened. Peter swallowed, hardly believing. _93_ floors. How was that even physically possible? Without toppling?

“This is the top floor. Elevator is locked so you can’t get down that way. Windows are basically indestructible. Everything is locked down tight so there’s no getting out, if you were inclined to do that.”

Peter wasn’t so inclined. He tipped his head down again.

“And that,” the man said. “The staring at the floor thing. Don’t do that. Tony won’t like it.”

Peter frowned to himself a moment, then cleared his expression and slowly lifted his head. Tony must be his new owner. A first timer. There would be a lot to learn about the man, his preferences, what he wanted-

 _$76,000._ He was going to want $76,000 worth of it, whatever it was.

“Better,” the man said, as the elevator dinged again. “Ah, and now we have the man himself.”

“Happy, what’s going on? I was in the middle of- who is this?”

Peter turned to give the man a clearer view. Feet, spaced. Hands, folded. Head… up. The dark haired man’s eyes settled on his collar straight away, eyes sharp. His expression deepened with displeasure. Peter fought a shiver away. No, no, not this.

“Um. Your new-”

“Is that a slave?” asked Tony, no, Mr.--what was his last name again? Peter couldn’t remember, his head was so fuzzy, and they had said Tony so much-

“Pepper didn’t tell you?”

“No, Pepper didn’t tell me-”

“She said you approved it. I went all the way to Walcott, it’s a big event-”

“I told her no. Absolutely not.”

The bickering continued. Neither seemed to finish a full sentence before the other cut them off. Peter stopped listening, purposely letting himself drift into the mist of the sedatives. Soft. It didn’t matter there, the words they said. What they decided.

Returned? Again?

No. Stop. Drift.

They were both staring at him. Peter blinked, coming back to himself. He wasn’t sure when they had stopped talking or why they were looking at him. Had they asked a question? He licked his lips and shifted on his feet, uncertain. He wished he could think.

“I’m sorry, sir,” was all he managed.

“Exactly,” Tony said, looking back at Happy. “Get Pepper on the phone.” And, when Peter started to follow them to the elevator: “You stay here.”

Peter stayed. No one came back that night, but Peter stayed.

\---

Peter woke to the ding of the elevator and morning light, scrambling to his feet as the door slid opened. The marble slipped beneath the soft shoes that had been provided for his trip here, splaying his feet out momentarily as he struggled to gain his balance.

It was Mr Stark again, accompanied by a slim blonde woman. They stopped short as Peter came up from his knees, pushing at his hair to order it, eyes wide.

“Tony?” the woman asked, voice mild and even.

“I didn’t tell him to do that,” Mr. Stark said immediately. “There’s a bed up here. Multiple even.”

“Tony-”

“Pepper.”

Feet. Hands. Head _up_. His thoughts were clearer this morning but he saw that the man came bearing an amber bottle, no doubt his morning dose of sedatives. The woman--Pepper--was scowling at Mr. Stark, who was unrepentant.

“What did you do last night?” she finally asked, addressing Peter.

“I stayed, ma’am.” Peter glanced between them, then fixed his eyes on the elevator doors, unnerved.

“Okay, well, I might have told him to do that,” Mr Stark said. “I didn’t think he would take it literally.”

“He’s a slave, Tony. It’s what they do.”

“And this is exactly why I shouldn’t have one.”

Were they here to return him? It was within the grace period, but it was unheard of for an Institution trained slave.

“We’re not talking about this anymore. I have meetings, Tony, _your_ meetings.”

“And I appreciate you taking one for the team, Pep. Okay, put away the death ray vision, let’s get this over with.” Mr Stark turned to him, opening the bottle and shaking one out, then offering it. “You--uh, you gotta name?”

“Peter,” he said, taking the pill between two fingers.

“Peter, great. Swallow that.” Peter did. Mr Stark frowned as he capped the bottle. “Actually, standing order, take one every morning.”

“You can’t leave him in possession of controlled substances. That’s literally illegal.”

“Illegal? Really? He’s top of the line, I’m sure-”

“Very illegal. More meetings.”

“Fine, sure. I’ll have a dispenser in here by this evening. JARVIS, think you can handle the scheduling?”

“Assuredly, sir.”

So he wasn’t crazy. The walls really did speak. Peter resisted the urge to glance around by tipping his head down, then jerked up again, remembering Happy’s instructions the day before.

At least he could process things for now, before the sedatives kicked in again.

Pepper stepped forward then, heels clicking smartly on the tiled floor. She looked him over shrewdly, taking in the soft clothing they had dressed him in once the bidding was complete, the thin collar around his neck. Peter was the only one who had been bathed and dressed before delivery. It wasn’t standard, but, for $76,000, they had deemed it necessary.

“I’m not sure what I was expecting,” Pepper said, stepping back after a moment.

“Are you saying you didn’t think this decision through? Because I gotta tell ya, I think it’s the worst decision you’ve ever made. Worse than sticking with me.”

“He’s just younger than I expected,” she said. “The Bradley Institution doesn’t release anything less than perfect. I’m sure he’ll be satisfactory.”

And then they were turning and walking back to the elevators. Just before the doors closed, Mr Stark stopped and pointed at Peter.

“Sleep in the bed. Eat food.”

The doors shut.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and kudos, guys! It really means a lot. I plan to update every Friday.
> 
> And yes, Deadpool still incoming. Slowly. You guys noticed the pairing right? I honestly did not expect this much attention to a rare pairing.

Peter was sitting in front of the elevator when it opened again, knees bent and arms around his legs. He wasn’t sure how long it had been, long enough for the sedative to have waxed then waned again, mellowing to a hum beneath his veins. He waited this time, unmoving, unsure what was expected of him.

Tony Stark strode from the elevator, tipping his head to glance at Peter but saying nothing. His eyes were shielded by a pair of dark sunglasses and he was dressed in casual pants and a plain black shirt this time; dressed down from the suit he had arrived in this morning. A small box was slung beneath his left arm. He pointed at Peter and cocked his finger, beckoning him to follow.

Peter rose and padded after him. They made their way to the kitchen where Mr Stark set the box down and proceeded to pull pieces of black plastic and stainless steel out to the counter. Peter watched and waited, in formal stance behind him. Only once all the pieces had been slotted together did Mr Stark turn around and finally look at him.

“Well?” Mr Stark asked after a moment, removing the glasses.

Peter glanced between the man and the device he had put together, at a loss. Was he supposed to know how to use it? It was likely the pill dispenser the man had promised Pepper he would bring, but it was all smooth sides, no visible buttons anywhere on its surface, nothing to indicate its usage. Would it be presumptuous to step forward and try to make it work? There hadn’t been any  _ commands _ , how was Peter supposed to know what he wanted?

“JARVIS,” Mr Stark asked after a long, quiet moment. “Is he sick or something?”

“Heart rate is slightly elevated but scans do not indicate anything is amiss, sir.” Scans? What was this JARVIS? Not human, that was for sure.

Peter averted his gaze to just the side of Mr Stark’s face, avoiding those dark, penetrating eyes. “I’m unsure what you’d like me to do, sir.”

“I made this for you. So you can get your own pills.” Mr Stark said, gesturing to the device. “Do you like it?”

Like it? Peter’s eyes flicked to Stark’s again, and there must have been something in his face, some expression he hadn’t meant to let slip through, because Stark groaned and scrubbed a hand through his hair.

“Yes, sir,” Peter said, before the man could speak, hoping to save the situation before it could spiral out of control. “I like it.”

“Great,” Tony said, though he didn’t sound convinced. “That’s the kind of enthusiasm I like to hear when I make something new.”

Obviously that had not been the preferred response. Peter couldn’t help himself, head tipping to look down at the floor. This wasn’t going well and he wasn’t even sure what he was doing wrong, or when enough would finally be enough. The tension had been growing in him until he felt like a spring was ready to burst in his chest. Nothing made sense. $76,000, and he had no idea what he was supposed to do, what was wanted from him. He could do it, he was sure he could, he just needed to know  _ what _ .

_ I can wait, _ he told himself.  _ I’ll be able to read him soon, it just takes time. It always takes time. _

But would he figure it out before his lack was taken out of his flesh?

“Okay, maybe that wasn’t the best conversation starter,” Mr Stark said after a moment, voice neutral. “I’m new to this, okay? Owning someone.”

_ You don’t say, _ Peter thought to himself, looking up again. 

Maybe that was a mistake, because he found himself caught by the man’s gaze, strong and dark. He looked at Peter like he was processing him, pulling bits of Peter out piece by piece, rooting inside for some undefined part. Why? His paperwork would have included every relevant detail. There was no reason to go searching around with no direction.

Mr Stark looked away first, frowning. “Okay. Let’s try this a different way.” He turned around, pushing the device he’d set up back on the counter until it was against the wall. When he turned around again, he hopped up to sit on the counter and leaned back on his hands, a picture of relaxation though something subtle in his pose belied that. “Did you eat? After Pepper and I left.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Mr Stark studied him. “Is there enough food to last you a while?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr Stark looked at him, face blank, then at the ceiling. “JARVIS, are there standing orders to keep this refrigerator stocked?”

“Food is replaced weekly, on a rotating schedule for selection.”

Mr Stark looked at him again. Peter waited.

“Is there anything else you need?”

“No, sir.”

“Nothing?”

“No, sir.”

“Not even a toothbrush?”

“No, sir.”

“I’ll order you a toothbrush.”

Peter officially had no idea what was happening. He clenched his hands tighter behind his back and said nothing.

“Look, kid. Peter. Do you say anything other than yes sir, no sir?”

Peter opened his mouth. Shut it. Frowned. “...Yes, sir.”

“Well quit with the sirs, first of all. It’s a little too on the nose. Can you do that? Or is that against the law as well?”

Peter paused. “Yes, I can do that,” he said carefully.

“Good.” Stark looked pleased, finally. “Next--Peter. This is an order. Pay attention.”

Peter straightened up as far as he could, doing his best to look attentive, to look so, so good. He was ready for orders, eager for some way to make sense of his new life here.

Stark’s face was grim. “I never wanted a slave, I still don’t, and I’m not prepared for… whatever this entails.”

Peter tried not to wilt. Another black mark on his record then, as soon as he could be shifted.

“I’m not equipped to take care of a puppy, let alone a whole human. If you need something, you tell me or JARVIS. Keep yourself alive, healthy, and presentable because I don’t have the time or the patience to do it for you.” Stark sat up from his relaxed pose. “And none of this sleeping or sitting on the floor. I have furniture. Use it. Got it?”

“Yes.” Peter said, mind whirring, trying to slot these commands into place, trying to figure out the implications behind each one.

“Pepper told me about all your finer traits, so at least there’s something useful we can do. You’re to meet me in the lab every morning. JARVIS will tell you when it’s time and will escort you.”

His brain came screaming to a stop. Peter’s heart clenched in his chest and he struggled to stay level and still. Of course that was what it would be. He couldn’t be surprised, that was what he had been shaped for. It was always going to be this. The wool had been torn from his eyes on his first purchase, but he had somehow fooled himself that this time would be different.

“Peter?” Mr Stark queried, hopping off the counter, one eyebrow raised. He took a step forward.

Peter blinked hard, forcing his voice to work. “Yes, sir.” He flinched on the word even as he said it, stepping back on his right foot, away from the approaching man. That was wrong, too, a one-two punch of mistakes. He stepped back to his original position, chin snapping down, habit working hard at his heels. “Yes. I’m sorry.” The words came out faint and breathy, not clear, not composed at all.

Stark moved again, just his hand from his side, and Peter couldn’t contain the flinch in any capacity, not right now. He stepped back and dropped to his knees, clenching his eyes shut, expecting a blow any moment and knowing he deserved it. He was supposed to be  _ better _ than this.

Mr Stark had fallen utterly still. Peter could  _ feel _ the absolute hush in the air. He didn’t dare move or make another sound, not even to breath. He couldn’t feel his hands. His head swam.

The still broke. Stark moved straight past him, swift and with purpose. Peter listened to his heavy steps speeding away. The elevator dinged open, then shut again. Silence.

Peter took in a shuddering breath, not moving. He listened, focused his whole body on it from head to toes, waiting for the elevator to come back, for the door to ding open and Mr Stark to return. Did he know how to use the remote? Or maybe he would favor something more hands-on. Peter didn’t scar and he healed quickly enough to be useful again soon. It was a big selling point.

Better to get the first one over with anyway, wasn’t it? The first was usually a bad one, to keep ‘em in line. Show them the consequences of their actions and just who they were dealing with. He always had a better idea what to expect after the first punishment, how to avoid angering the master. 

He wasn’t sure how long he waited there, shivering, head down and eyes shut, before JARVIS’ voice came from above.

“Sir has released you for the day. You may do as you please.”

Peter fought for a long minute, trying to hold himself together, then broke. He shook to the floor, tears coming to his eyes. It didn’t make any sense. Nothing in this place made any sense.

\--

Peter woke early the next day determined to do well despite the lack of real orders or direction. He showered first, scrubbing himself under water so hot his skin turned red and tender, until he was satisfied that any last speck of dirt had been scoured off. His hair had been shaved to stubble before the auction, but he washed it just as vigorously.

There was a bottle of body lotion on the bedside table that he had been steadfastly ignoring. Peter picked it up now, jaw set, then set it right back down again. He dressed in his only outfit, wondering if he should ask Stark for more. Was he to do his own laundry? There was no machine he could find.

He took his sedative, ate one of the meal packs in the refrigerator, brushed his teeth. The only shoes he had were the soft cloth slippers the auction had provided, so he slipped those on, sat on the couch, and waited.

And waited. 

After an hour, the sedative kicking in but JARVIS still absent, he went back into the room and put the body lotion on. His skin was so soft, now. Peter rubbed his finger in aimless circles, drifting, his back against the pillows. At 10am he came back to himself enough to wonder.

Peter shored himself up and said, carefully: “JARVIS?”

“At your service, sir.”

That caught him off guard.  _ Peter _ was the service. What was going on in this place?

“Do you require anything?”

“Oh.” Peter rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to concentrate. “How do I find the lab, sir?”

Quiet a moment. “Mr Stark is presently in the lab but has not requested your presence as of yet.”

He had been forgotten. Stark had said it, he had  _ said _ that he didn’t want a slave. Maybe this would be Peter’s life, locked away at the top of the tower, alone, sedated. Was it better than being returned or resold?

“Should Mr Stark ask for you, I shall relay the request immediately.”

Peter nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

He waited a while longer, dreary. Maybe, he thought, it would be better to just let the sedatives take him to sleep for now. Until Mr Stark needed him. Peter pressed a hand into the pillows. It sounded… freeing. He shimmied himself slowly down the bed, eyes already drifting closed. He almost wished he were getting the sedatives twice a day despite his distaste for the feeling--it was better than being lost.

\--

Tony Stark did call for him the next day, at nearly noon, through JARVIS. All communications had come through JARVIS since Stark had talked to him in the kitchen, few though they were. Stark was moving things around on some sort of holographic screen when JARVIS opened the lab door for him, fully engaged in what he was doing.

The lab was… not what Peter had expected. He stared at the tables full of papers, components, and tools, a messy sprawl overtaking the room. An electronics lab, not a doctor’s lab. There was nothing biological in here, he realized, feeling some tension ease away. He thought he would have been excited if he had been able to rouse any emotions through the sedative.

“What do you think? Nice, huh?” 

Peter nodded automatically, slowly realizing himself and falling into stance. Feet. Hands. Head up. How long had he been staring at the lab? Too long, probably, but he couldn’t track time properly. 

He looked at Stark and every ounce of himself willed Stark to be happy with him, to see how perfect he could be if he only knew how. “Yes,” he said, and then, haltingly: “It’s nice.”

Stark’s eyebrows rose and he grinned. “Hey. It speaks.”

Peter had never wondered before if he should smile back--you don’t, really, it wasn’t even a question--but nothing was the same here and Tony seemed to be expecting something. He stared back, unsure, wondering if it would please Stark or anger him. It was absurd to even consider. Wasn’t it? Or...

The grin faded from Tony Stark’s face before Peter could make up his hazy mind. “Speaking of speaking, you know JARVIS isn’t a real person, right? He’s not really there, or anywhere. You don’t have to call him sir.”

Peter nodded slowly, knowing something about that was strange but not quite able to put his finger on what or why. “Okay.” 

“Okay. Good.” Stark nodded back then cleared his throat, looking away. “Pepper tells me- well, Pepper tells me a lot of things, but just recently she told me that you have a number of skills, aside from the wall crawling stuff.”

Stark gestured at the lab and Peter’s gaze followed, a niggle of hope in his chest. “Yes, si- Mr Stark.”

“You can call me Tony,” he said, offhand. “Now come on, show me what you can do.”

They went through the lab, tool by tool, component by component, Stark asking and Peter answering. He dredged up the information from beneath the sedative’s sludge, slower than he would have otherwise. Peter faltered at times but it came back piece by piece, and the more Stark asked, the more he remembered.

“Where did you learn all this?” Stark asked, interrupting Peter’s halting and confused explanation of resistance.

“The Bradley Institution,” Peter said.

“I thought they just,” Stark gestured vaguely, “I don’t know, taught you to be polite and serve things on platters.”

Peter hadn’t realized how little Stark knew about slaves; he had thought everyone knew about the Institution. “There are classes,” he offered, because he was pretty sure there was an implied question there. “We’re trained with a basic education so we can assist with more than household chores and- bedding.”

For once Stark was the one that flinched, hardly noticeable as a quick blink of the eye and infinitesimal draw backward. “Ah,” was all he said.

Maybe it was the sedative wearing off. Maybe it was the poor discipline he had received since arriving. Whatever it was, Peter  _ knew _ his next comment wasn’t asked for or welcome, but he said it anyway. “Don’t worry, Mr Stark. My bedroom training wasn’t neglected.”

Maybe it was a challenge. Stark  _ should  _ beat him for that one, he knew. There was no world in which it was an appropriate comment, unbidden and after Stark’s reaction to the mention of bedding. It was presumptuous for a slave to even address a master’s worries without direct order.

Most of all, Peter would really regret it if Stark took him at his word. It was a dangerous game he was playing, and he wasn’t even functioning fully. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. A Bradley graduate should never behave that way. They were better, a tier above any other slave, reliable, obedient… Good.

“Well,” Stark said, no longer looking directly at Peter. “I’m more concerned with your science training. That seems up to snuff so we’re golden.”

And that was that. Peter had really expected… something to happen, there. For the other shoe to drop, or Stark to show his hand. The man had to be hiding something, his true motive, his wildest desires that Peter would bear the weight of, something more than an empty floor and a lab hand. He could bring in interns to do the work he seemed to intend Peter for, for free, no room and board necessary. No micromanaging.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Stark said. “Go back to your room, Peter. I’ll call you again tomorrow.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking for a beta for this fic and possibly (probably) others.
> 
> We're getting to the ship, I promise. The guys hardly even know each other as people yet and Peter is still pretty sure Tony might eat him, literally and figuratively.
> 
> Maybe they should try a trust fall?

The bath tub was a pain to clean. It had little rough patches for traction that collected every tiny bit of dirt and resisted the scrubbing Peter gave it, taking up little green fibers from the pad itself. It helped that he cleaned it several times a week so nothing became too entrenched, but he didn’t understand why someone would make a bath tub like that unless they really, really hated the person who had to clean it.

The tub had been installed before Peter ever set foot in the tower, so at least that could be discounted. Stark couldn’t hate him that much anyway because he had called Peter to the lab every day for two weeks. Peter performing trivial tasks, cleaning the lab, assisting Mr Stark with whatever he asked no matter how strange.

Mostly Stark ignored him, but occasionally he said nice things to Peter, asked him questions about his training classes, talked to him as if the responses mattered. That didn’t seem like hate. Stark was often absorbed by his work and ideas, yammering quietly to himself or turning the music up loud to drown everything out, but the times when he talked to Peter he was focused, almost… interested.

Peter didn’t trust it, hate or not, but he was grateful for the break in his days. He had become comfortable with the lab and it’s work, if not the strange Tony Stark himself. He had always enjoyed tech classes, enjoyed working hands on, creating, and the routine settled the nerves inside him. The work passed him by gently in the morning until his dismissal at lunch. The afternoons drifted by well enough, the sedatives still working their magic, and then it was just the vivid evenings he had to contend with. Mostly he cleaned.

The elevator dinged elsewhere on the floor. Peter jolted to his feet, perturbed and annoyed that he was perturbed. Anyone could come and go as they pleased, of course, but no one did. The 93rd floor had begun to feel something like a haven, something just for Peter. Comforting, if lonely.

“Peter?” Stark’s voice called.

It occurred to him, then, that there were very few things that Stark would need to come to Peter for rather than having JARVIS call him down remotely. He glanced through the open bathroom door to the bed, neatly made. Was he looking for evening entertainment?

Peter’s stomach rolled.

“Peter?” Stark called again, voice further away this time.

Whatever the reason, it wouldn’t be improved by making him wait. Peter scrambled out of the tub and met Stark near the elevator, where he was just heading back from the kitchen. “Mr Stark.”

“There you are.” Stark seemed about to say something else but he stopped short, glancing Peter up and down, eyes lingering on the wet spots on his clothes. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning the bathroom,” Peter said. He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, pulling the wet spots away from his skin and twisting them around his fingers instead. He was a mess. He hadn’t had time to make sure he looked presentable.

Stark was surveying the entryway with a frown now. He was wearing comfortable clothes, like what he always wore in the lab, but he had sent Peter away hours ago. Did he work in there all day, even after Peter left? There were always differences in the lab from day to day, work that had made progress, things moved around, objects that appeared and disappeared.

“Have any maids come by since you’ve been here?” Stark asked, turning and walking toward the kitchen again.

“No, Mr Stark,” Peter said, hurrying to follow. It was a weird question. Why would there be maids to clean slave quarters, no matter how fancy those quarters were?

“Yeah, I thought I cancelled their services for this floor when Happy brought you.” Stark peered into the sink, wiped a hand across the counters, then opened the cabinet underneath and looked inside where Peter kept his cleaning supplies. He rifled through, knocking around in the bottles that Peter had ordered so carefully, toppling two before he shut the door.

“Are you looking for something specific, Mr Stark?” Peter asked. There was an edge to his voice that he hadn’t meant to let through. _Not my floor. Mr Stark’s floor. Mr Stark’s detergents and soaps and sponges._

“You clean a lot,” Stark said, ignoring the question, but at least he was no longer touching everything.

“Yes,” Peter said. Was that wrong, somehow? Mr Stark had never said… well, anything about it, really, to give permission or forbid it. Cleaning was just part of what Peter _did_ for his owners. It was a given for any slave. Wasn’t it?

“What else do you do?”

“Eat?” Peter said, cautiously, trying to remember any order that had ever been given to him. “Sleep.”

“In a bed.” Was that sarcasm? Why did the man have to be so hard to read? He hadn’t bothered with the sunglasses today, but his eyes mostly gave very little away.

“Yes,” Peter replied.

“And what else?”

Peter didn’t have an answer for that. 

Stark only waited a moment before pushing off from the counter, addressing JARVIS as he walked. “What does he do, JARVIS?”

“Peter has provided an accurate list of his activities, sir. He also consumes one tablet each morning, as dispensed.”

Stark had crossed into the room with the couches and the tv. Peter followed behind a careful distance away. If Stark was looking for a misstep, for Peter doing something he shouldn’t, he was going to be very disappointed. Peter had made sure of it.

“Do you come in here?” Stark asked, gesturing at the couches, eyes sharp now.

“Yes,” Peter said. Stark had never said he couldn’t at least enter the room.

Stark picked up the remote and turned the television on. _Create a profile_ appeared on a black screen, a white plus sign blinking for attention. Stark turned the tv off and tossed the remote onto one of the couches.

“You come in here and, what?” Stark asked, then shook one hand toward Peter. “Wait, let me guess. You clean.”

“I clean,” Peter confirmed. “All the rooms.”

“All the rooms,” Stark repeated. “You eat. You sleep. You take your pills. You clean. And you work with me in the laboratory. Did I miss anything?”

“I bathe,” Peter offered, unease creeping in.

“That is, technically, cleaning,” Stark said. “JARVIS, did I tell Peter to do anything else?”

“No, sir, aside from activities in the laboratory.”

He looked angry, or perhaps frustrated, but he wasn’t looking at Peter. He was looking anywhere _but_ Peter, circling the couches, wiping his finger along lamps, peering at the ceilings. Peter stayed where he was, feet glued to their positions. He didn’t want to protect the space anymore. He wished he had never touched anything in there at all.

“Okay,” Stark said after he had roamed the room several times. His voice was even, his expression calmed. “This is my fault. I didn’t tell you to do anything else.”

So it wasn’t that he shouldn’t be cleaning, then. It was that he was supposed to do something else as well. That was manageable. Peter could do more, was dying to even.

“What else would you like me to do, Mr Stark?” Peter asked.

Stark ignored the question. There was nothing really surprising about that.

“Anything on this floor is yours to use.” Stark leaned down and grabbed the remote from where he had tossed it, and turned the tv on again. “Including the tv. Including the couches. If it’s on this floor, you are free to use it. As much as you want, whenever you want.”

Peter watched Stark click the white plus button and begin to type. P-E-T-E-R.

“This is your profile now. You have access to every television show and movie that’s been made in the last 100 years. There are games on here too, so go nuts.” Profile saved, Stark turned the tv off again and stood. “That’s an order.”

Absolutely nonsensical. The man was mad. “Yes, Mr Stark.”

“Do you have any favorites?” Stark asked. “Movies, tv shows, games, anything.”

The man knew the answer to that question. Peter had no doubt that he knew, not even he could know so little about a slave. “No.”

“Well choose some. When you’re up here, you don’t have any duties except to stay alive.” Stark considered a moment. “And not burn the place down. That’s it.”

“You just assigned me to use the tv,” Peter said, and that was out of line. You don’t contradict the master, it was basically arguing. Stark didn’t seem to notice or care about his failing manners.

“Fine. Order’s off. No more orders. Do what you want up here. Use the tv or don’t, but it’s not on me if you choose not to.”

Peter nodded.

“Great. I’m going to give you an order now though.”

“Okay,” Peter said, because Stark was looking at him like he wanted a response.

“Tell me something.” His voice was deceptively mild, but there was intent behind it. Knowledge. “I don’t care what, could be anything, just tell me any thought going through that guarded little head of yours.”

Peter’s mind immediately forgot every thought it had ever had.

“Come on,” Stark said, stepping forward, moving to take another but stopping as Peter leaned back. He didn’t trust this, whatever it was. Nothing about this could end well for Peter. “There has to be something. Ask me a question. I know you have questions, I see you thinking them everytime I do something wrong with you. Now’s your chance. Spit ‘em out, no consequences.”

No consequences. Right. That was a trap if Peter had ever heard one. “I don’t have any questions, Mr Stark.”

“Yes you do. You’re just too afraid to ask them. I mean it, nothing will happen. I’ll put it in writing if you want. Peter gets to ask any question he wants, anything at all, and that monster Stark can’t do anything in retaliation.”

“Legal documents don’t apply to slaves,” Peter said. He set his jaw, committing to it. “Not _for_ slaves.”

If impertinence was what Stark was after, if he had some threshold for punishment that Peter had managed to avoid and was trying to force Peter to cross it, then maybe he would win. Everything about this place had thrown Peter off his balance, had tipped him over and rolled him under until he didn’t know what was up or down.

“You’re right,” Stark said. “Another oversight on my part.” He rocked back and forth on his heels for a moment, thinking. “JARVIS.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Peter’s going to ask me a question, anything he wants. If I retaliate or hurt him, you’re to destroy all schematics I’ve created in the last month. No, any schematics I’ve _touched_ in the last month. Permanently deleted.”

“Very well, sir. All schematics edited in the last 30 days have been pulled for deletion should sir retaliate.”

Peter’s heart ached with confusion. He didn’t want to play this game anymore.

“Come on,” Stark said, voice pitched softer now. “Ask. You’re frustrated. You’ve been getting more and more frustrated every day, and you’re not as good at hiding it as you think. I’m not what you expected, am I?” He quirked a smile. “Well, fair’s fair. I didn’t expect you either. Ask me your question.”

Peter’s eyes burned. All the questions he had ever wondered came roaring to the front all at once, buffeting him, battling for precedence. Peter shook his head, denying the thoughts themselves more than anything else, but Stark must have taken it as a denial of his request.

“Please,” Stark said. He sounded, incredibly enough, sincere. “Ask me. I won’t punish you.”

The words tore through him like a bullet to the gut. “Well why _don’t_ you?” Peter demanded, voice echoing loud where Stark’s had been low, hands curling into fists behind his back. Maybe it was a mistake to answer, probably it was, but Peter could only do what seemed the best course of action to him, and Stark had given him so few alternatives.

“Why don’t I what?” Stark asked, frowning for just a moment before his expression cleared, understanding dawning. “Punish you?”

Peter nodded, blinking hard against his emotions. He had to hold together what little there was left. He could fall apart later, when he was alone, but he had to hold it together now.

Because Stark was right. He _was_ frustrated. He was frustrated with the rules that no longer applied, every rule he had followed his entire life that had disappeared, and new ones in their place. New rules that forced him to do the forbidden, that forced him to misbehave. Peter was frustrated with Stark himself, illogical Stark who wanted these things that it hurt Peter to give.

Peter, who had never rebelled against his bonds, who had accepted them quietly and been happy to give himself whole.

“Why would I punish you?” Stark’s voice was even, his face a study in neutrality. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Yes I have,” Peter said, astonished. His voice wobbled at the end but he pushed past it, unclasping his hands to rub roughly at his eyes. “I don’t know what you want. I never know what you want. I don’t anticipate.”

“There’s nothing to anticipate,” Tony said. “Did you forget? I didn’t want a slave. I don’t need anyone to anticipate my needs.”

“I contradicted you about the tv,” Peter said, gesturing to couches, the remote, the whole situation as it had happened just minutes ago. “I told you about the bedroom training when I knew you were uncomfortable. You ask me to do things and I _don’t_ , or I do them wrong. I should know what you want by now, but I don’t. These are all punishable.” Peter breathed in and let it out, feeling sick to his stomach. “I contradicted you just now.”

“Are you trying to _convince_ me to punish you?” Stark asked, incredulous.

Peter was so stupid. God, he was so, so stupid. Peter shook his head once, sharp and helpless, and proceeded to set himself to rights. Feet shoulder width apart. Hands behind his back. Head up.

“Stop that,” Stark snapped. Peter froze. “You always do that when you think I’m going to murder you. News flash, I’m not into the whole punishment scene, and believe me, people more enthusiastic than you have tried to change my mind. I’m not going to do whatever it is you think I’m going to do, or should do, or whatever fucked up things you think you deserve. Now _stand down_.”

Peter let his hands fall to his sides and moved his feet, heedless of where they were actually going as long as they weren’t _there_. He was breathing hard for no reason at all, heart hammering in his chest.

Stark looked as surprised as Peter felt.

“They teach you military terms,” he said. “Of course they do.” He laughed, something bitter hidden beneath it. “How old were you, Peter? When they made you a slave.”

“I was always a slave.”

Stark stared at him through eyes as bottomless as the ocean deep. What was it about his eyes that held Peter captive? Peter wanted to look away, wanted to turn his eyes to the floor and shut his mind off again, but Stark’s eyes wouldn’t let him.

“You’re different today,” Stark finally said. “Why?”

Peter was lost in his past and that inexorable gaze. He struggled to make the leap Stark had led him to. “Sir?” he asked, hopelessly lost.

“You’re different in the lab. Quieter than you are now, even before I pushed. What’s different?”

Oh. “The sedative?” Peter said, looking askance at him. “It wears off since you don’t give me a second dose.”

“Sedative.” Stark looked toward the kitchen, frowning deeply. “It’s a sedative. Every morning.”

Stark hadn’t known, obviously. Peter wasn’t sure how it was possible to just not know but he felt relief wash through him. He had thought, when the dosage hadn’t gone down over the passing days, that Stark had simply intended to keep him sedated all the time. It happened occasionally, usually with rebellious or dangerous slaves, but Peter had chalked it up to one more eccentricity from someone who didn’t know any better.

“JARVIS,” Stark said, “Cancel any re-orders of Peter’s medication. Don’t dispense any in the morning anymore. Unless-” He broke off, considering Peter. “Do you want to keep taking them?”

“No,” Peter said softly. If he was given a choice in this, if Stark was going to let him decide, there was no question about it. He wanted to be awake in the lab, to be present.

“Got that, JARVIS?”

“Understood, sir. The prescription will not be refilled and they will no longer be dispensed in the morning.”

“If those are sedatives then where’s the medication to suppress your powers?” At Peter’s uncomprehending look, Stark wiggled his fingers. “You know. Keep you from climbing out of here.”

“There are windows, Mr Stark. I was told they’re impenetrable.” _Impertinent,_ his mind whispered. _Fool._

“Mostly impenetrable,” Stark agreed. “So you don’t take anything for that? Pepper said it was standard practice for any slave with powers.”

Ah, now Peter understood. “Not from the Bradley Institution. We aren’t born with our powers. They only give powers to slaves who are well finished and don’t need suppressors to behave.”

Stark hummed. “I can’t say they’re wrong. You haven’t tried to run away yet.”

“No, Mr Stark.”

“Let’s keep it that way.” 

A strange look came across the man’s face then. Stark moved forward, slow but steady, clearly broadcasting every move until he drew even with Peter. He reached out and cupped Peter’s face, boring into him with that dark gaze again. Peter didn’t dare move, hardly even blinking. His heart had only just calmed but was now hammering away again. What was Stark looking for? 

Worse, what was he finding?

Whatever it was, he seemed less than satisfied. After a moment, Stark gave his cheek a pat and stepped back. “I should go. This was a bad idea. Or a really good one, I’m still not sure. Night, kid.”

It wasn’t until he was laying in bed that Peter realized he had never found out why Stark had even come, what he had wanted. That night he dreamt of numbers, a ceaseless stream of numbers climbing in his vision, drowning him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you approach this chapter, you find a gash in the very page. A more careful examination reveals that something thin and sharp has stabbed through the page. There's an air of frustration surrounding the page, but there is no one else around. As you turn away you spot something scrawled on the second page beneath the gash. As you peer closer you realize it's a heart drawn in something red and still wet. Inside the heart it simply says: DP+PP.
> 
> You figure you better get out of there and hurry into the chapter.
> 
> \---
> 
> Still looking for a beta. If you're interested, comment here.

“They could be electrified. One arrow to back or chest and boom, baddie is on the ground.” Stark mimed a man falling over with one hand, looking pleased with himself. “Whatever the problem was, solved.”

He had taken to talking out loud to Peter rather than himself. The work had been so much better without the sedative, Peter’s mind open and running at full speed, hands sure as they worked. Stark had noticed the difference, had praised it, and then proceeded to do mental laps around him.

He hadn’t told Peter what the projects were actually for, most of the time, but he gave bits and pieces. Peter hung on his every word, eager to learn more, to do more. It was usually weapons related, he knew that, something to do with police or military, but Stark always breezed over the finer details.

“The arrow itself would have to be altered,” Stark continued. “We want it to incapacitate, not kill. A long distance stun gun. What do you think, a blunt tip with micro-hooks to snag skin and give ‘em one hell of a bruise? Or maybe just a conductor on the end.”

Peter paused, lifting the soldering iron away from the project he was working on. Sometimes Stark didn’t expect a response but this time it looked like he did, his own scrawling paused as he waited. Peter didn’t reach up to touch the collar at his neck, but he felt it more keenly then. Did Stark know it could shock? He had never brought the remote out and Peter had never asked, not wanting to remind him of the possibilities.

“Hooking into the skin hurts more,” he finally said, picking up the soldering iron again to place his finishing touches. “They save it for severe disobedience at Bradley.”

He wasn’t looking at Stark, but the radio silence in response was clear enough. This was how Stark tended to respond when he treaded on something to do with Peter’s previous punishments or training. He wasn’t skittish about the subject of punishments in general--sometimes, when Peter shied, he would simply say “no retaliation” and walk away. Peter didn’t believe him, exactly, but he counted his blessings as they were.

They continued in silence for a time until Peter set the soldering iron aside, finally finished, and considered the work he had completed. Heavy steps approached from behind.

“That’s really good, Peter, clean work,” Stark said, setting a hand on his shoulder as he peered at the finished wires. That was new. Peter didn’t move, careful not to react or draw away, but something in him drew the man’s attention anyway. Stark looked at him, eyes assessing, and straightened up, hand coming away. “It’s a good break point, kid. You’re free the rest of the day.”

“Sir, I am to remind you that it’s lunchtime,” JARVIS said. “Ms Potts has insisted you eat today.”

“Right, for the uh, presentation,” Stark hand waved it away. “Fine. We’ll have lunch on my floor.”

‘We,’ it turned out, included Peter, and Stark’s floor, it turned out, was the biggest bachelor pad in existence. He had his own built in bar with color-changing LED lights. The entertainment center took up an entire wall. Peter had almost been afraid to set foot inside for fear of breaking something.

“I’m not the greatest cook, not gonna lie,” Stark said, opening the fridge and rifling inside. “I hope a sandwich sounds good to you.”

Peter stood awkwardly at the island, watching his master,  _ his master _ , pulling out meat and cheese and condiments. To feed Peter.  _ Real food _ for Peter. He tried to tamp down the excitement blooming in him, not trusting it. But Stark didn’t know so many things and maybe this was one of them. He should tell Stark and have a meal pack instead. It was his duty.

But it was also his duty to tell Stark about the collar functions and Peter hadn’t done that either.

“I can cook, if you’d like,” he offered instead. “I’m trained.”

Stark turned around, a small paper bag held between his teeth, hands full of condiments and leafy greens. Assistance needed, and finally Stark needed help with things Peter was trained for. He walked forward and took the bottles from Mr Stark’s hands, setting them on the counter, one eye geared toward Stark himself.

Stark took the paper bag from his mouth. “Thanks but sandwiches are quick and I have to get back to it. Turkey or ham?”

Stark bumped him away with his hip, sorting the ingredients again, and Peter stepped back. He wasn’t sure if he felt chastised or not by the bump, but Stark didn’t look annoyed so he took it as a mild rebuke and backed a few feet away.

“Turkey,” he said faintly. In truth Peter couldn’t quite remember the difference between the two. He would have been happy with either but Stark liked answers to his questions, especially the strange ones.

“Quit hovering and sit down,” Stark said, pointing at the island with a butter knife. “I’ve got this under control.”

It felt impossibly wrong to sit and watch Mr Stark making his food, and then Mr Stark  _ served  _ the sandwich to him on a fancy china plate and Peter was pretty sure something horrible was going to happen soon because this wasn’t right. Peter was  _ wrong _ and it didn’t matter that it was out of his control. He couldn’t eat this, it was sacrilege.

Stark ate two mouthfuls of his own sandwich then gave Peter a look. “I didn’t poison it. I paid a lot of money for you. It’d be kind of a waste to kill you now.”

Peter stared. He set his hand on the sandwich.

“That was a joke,” Stark muttered, looking away. “Forgot my audience for a second.”

Peter picked the sandwich up. It was so different from the mush and bars of the meal pack people chow. Almost too pretty to mess up, but… Peter’s stomach grumbled. He looked sideways at Stark, who steadfastly did not look back.

Peter took a bite. The bread was soft and squishy, and then the lettuce crunched, and the tomato drizzled onto his tongue, and Peter thought he might cry. It was heaven on earth. It was joy and love and fervor in his mouth. 

Stark had put an apple on the plate as well and now that he had tried something fresh, Peter was ravenous to try more. He dropped the sandwich and grabbed the apple instead, biting straight into the roundest, thickest part.

It was so juicy. Peter thought maybe he had finally died and this was his reward for making it so long, for surviving. Juices ran down his face, he wasn’t used to eating wet things like this, and he just made more of a mess when he wiped at it with the back of his hand at the same time as he took another bite.

“Napkin,” Stark said, pushing one toward him with two fingers. He  _ was  _ staring at Peter now, expression somewhere between alarmed and amazed, like Peter was a wild creature that had wandered in and taken a seat.

Peter swallowed the apple in his mouth and set it down on his plate. Something was growing within him, some feeling he didn’t know, nervy but bright. Peter wiped his mouth carefully with the napkin, then down his neck where the juice had run. Stark’s eyes flicked to follow the movement, twisting his own napkin idly between his fingers.

Peter wondered why people didn’t just eat sandwiches for every meal. They were amazing. Were tomatoes always this sweet? He sighed a little around another bite then darted a look at Stark, embarrassed. He had meant it to be an inward-facing action. He was making a spectacle of himself but Peter couldn’t bring himself to care. It had been a long time since he’d felt so excited.

Or had he ever? Peter couldn’t quite bring anything to mind. He took another bite. Happiness welled and bubbled in his chest. He must have done something very good to deserve this.

When he looked, Stark looked away. Stark contemplated his own sandwich a moment then took his own bite, chewing slowly. He grimaced as he swallowed and looked down at his hands, lifting the top piece of bread.

“I don’t think mine is as good as yours,” he finally said, closing it up again. “I’m going to fire the chef.”

There was already so much good feeling in Peter, flavor on his tongue and something warm in his chest, and the laugh escaped before he had an inkling it was even there. Peter pressed a hand over his mouth, aghast. It was improper, absolutely inexcusable-

But Stark laughed too, genuine surprise on his face. “Well if I’d known deposing me was all you needed to smile, I would have done it sooner. Want me to resign my position at Stark Industries as well? I’m sure they can find a good replacement.”

Peter wasn’t sure how to respond. Stark had liked it? Stark seemed to truly like very little, when he thought about it, mostly trending towards really hating certain things and standing neutral on the rest. He was becoming aware of how ridiculous he had to look. The masters never got this excited over food.

“Alright, I’ll just consider myself lucky I got one out of you,” Stark said easily. “Come on, it’s fine. Just-” He reached out and took Peter’s wrist, pulling until his hand lowered to the counter top. “You’re not even smiling under there. Relax. No one will ever know you laughed, your secret is safe with me.”

Stark’s hand was hot around his wrist, large palm fully ensconcing it. He could feel calluses on Stark’s fingertips. It didn’t bother him like he thought it should, like it would have when he first arrived. It even felt sort of nice. He was reminded of the countless nameless others he had left behind at the Institution, how they had held hands or linked arms when they could, not caring who the other was as they sought some comfort, some friendly contact.

When Peter didn’t respond, Stark looked down at the joint of them. 

“Sorry,” Stark said, taking his hand away and laying it flat on the counter instead. “Wasn’t thinking.”

The air felt so much colder on his wrist than the rest of him. Peter put his hand in his lap, fighting his upset. He shouldn’t have liked that, he told himself. You don’t rely on the master for comfort or you end up disappointed or worse.

Still. He felt oddly guilty looking at Stark’s grim face. The man had seemed so happy for a moment. For all that Peter never laughed himself, he realized that Stark didn’t either. He didn’t trust that Stark wouldn’t punish him eventually, he really didn’t, but he  _ had  _ been good to Peter. Confusing, but kind in his own way. That had never wavered.

Maybe Peter wanted to pay that back somehow. Maybe he could push at his boundaries, just a little, to find the things that Stark wanted since Stark so obviously did not want the things Peter had always been told someone would. His training had already suffered a beating so maybe he could let it go, just a little. Stark had given him freedom to try at least.

The silence had stretched on for too long. Stark was staring at his plate, lost in his thoughts. Peter didn’t think they were good ones.

“Thank you for the sandwich, Mr Stark,” he said for lack of anything better.

Stark blinked, emerging from whatever was twisting through his mind. “You’re welcome. You eat it like you’ve never had one.”

Peter looked at his sandwich then back to Stark. His mouth worked for a moment. Stark’s face was blooming with some sense of understanding, but he didn’t look like he believed it.

“ _ Have _ you ever had a sandwich?” he asked slowly.

“No, Mr Stark.”

Bewildered, Stark gestured at Peter’s plate. “Eat.” Then he pulled his phone from his pocket. “JARVIS, what food do we stock for Peter?”

Peter did as he was told, and readily. There was something sharp on his next bite, almost spicy, but he wasn’t sure what it was.

“Peter’s refrigerator is stocked with standard Vitagold meal packs, and occasionally a selection from the Vitasilver line. The flavors are rotated weekly.”

Peter swallowed his bite and took another, eyes glued to Stark.

He did  _ not _ look amused. He was flicking through something on his phone, scowling. One page after another, not stopping very long on any one thing, eyes hard.

“What is this crap?” Stark turned the screen at Peter, showing line after line of Vitafood products, some packaged and some displaying the food itself. “You eat this?”

“Yes, sir,” Peter said, licking sauce from the corner of his mouth. Oh,  _ that _ was what was spicy.

“This is disgusting.” Stark shook his head and dropped the phone on the island. “Do you even like them?”

“It’s food,” Peter offered helplessly. He rubbed more sauce from his mouth with his thumb, trying to see it, but there wasn’t enough to determine anything by sight. He licked it tentatively, sure it was familiar but unable to quite place the flavor.

When he looked up, Stark was staring again.

“Mr Stark?”

“What are you doing?” Stark gestured at his thumb. “Stop… stop whatever that is. What is it?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Peter said. “It tastes… spicy.” He licked his thumb again, frowning.

“Oh. Mustard.,” Stark said, looking away. “Spicy mustard. I thought you cook?”

“For my owner,” Peter agreed.

He was accustomed to tasting dishes as they were made, but only things that could be split in portions. Sandwiches were a whole, and no master would want a sandwich that a slave had bitten. There had been a whole class on them at the Institution. They had never been allowed to eat their work.

“JARVIS, cancel all orders of what we currently have delivered for Peter. Set his refrigerator on the same schedule and supplies as mine.”

Peter nearly choked on the apple in his mouth. He spat it out, coughing, eyes wide. Fresh food? For him, all the time? This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

“Relax,” Stark said. “It’s not that big a deal. Jesus, kid, here-” He got up and pulled a glass bottle from the refrigerator, uncapping it and setting it in front of Peter. “Wash it down before you pass out. I really don’t want to see the news reports.”

Lemon-lime soda. Peter wiped at his watering eyes and took a tentative sip. It was sharp and bubbly and sweet. He took a gulp, remembering the flavor but just barely. It was almost too sweet, but with a sharp pop behind it.

“Good?” Stark asked and, when Peter nodded: “Great. Grab your plate and soda and follow me. I’m going to show you how to have a normal day because this is just sad.”

Stark grabbed his own food and led Peter to the living room, where he flopped down on his leather couch and turned the tv on. Peter waffled beside the arm chair, unsure where he should sit. The couch was directly in front of the tv and Stark had left plenty of room, but the arm chair seemed less risky. On the other hand, the end table beside the arm chair was stacked with auto magazines, but the table in front of the couch had plenty of room for his plate.

Stark was flipping through a listing of media. “You have a favorite?” he asked, glancing at Peter and taking in his indecision. “Have you been watching tv?”

“Yes,” Peter said. He hadn’t liked any of it but he had made an effort.

“Well, what are we watching?”

Peter took a sip of his soda, gaining a little time to think. Well, there was one show he had actually found himself engrossed in, having just finished the first season the other day. He glanced at Stark, trying to judge whether it would be something the man would like. He didn’t have the first clue what Stark would be interested in watching.

“Either you choose or we spend the evening with me scrolling through. Your call.”

“Well,” Peter said. “I liked The Good Place.”

“Done.”

Peter considered the arm chair once more, then made his way to sit on the opposite side of the couch from Tony. Might as well get a good view, and it would be a good step toward pushing the boundaries. Maybe Stark would like it.

It was near the end of the first episode, while cocktail shrimp flew through the sky and the world was going all to hell, that Stark finally looked over at Peter. “We’re going to need popcorn for the next one. You ever had popcorn? You’re gonna  _ love it _ .”

Tony was right. Popcorn was absolutely addicting, all crunchy salty buttery goodness. Peter ate nearly the whole bowl then licked his hands clean. He didn’t ask for another, he didn’t even hint at it, but Tony left and came back with another bowl, piping hot. There was even more butter on this one, somehow, and Peter had had no idea something could taste so good.

He wolfed down half of the fresh bowl before Tony put a stop to it, citing some sort of concern for Peter’s health, but he had brought Peter another soda with the popcorn and that was nearly as good. Peter didn’t know what flavor this one was but it didn’t taste like anything natural that he had ever eaten. His mind kept wondering if there was some trick there, some gotcha moment Tony would pull out on him, but nothing came and Tony seemed just as unconcerned as always.

Maybe it was real, he thought somewhere deep inside.0

“Sir,” JARVIS’s urgent voice interrupted, pausing the episode on Eleanor’s tormented face. “There has been an incident. Director Fury has requested your assistance.”

Stark was on his feet within a second. Peter hadn’t realized how close to Tony he had ended up sitting in an effort to share popcorn until he was jostled, but Stark wasn’t looking at him.

“Roll out the Mark VI,” Tony was saying.

There was a great grinding noise and the exterior wall of windows began to pivot out and down. Peter backed into the opposite end of the couch, drawing his knees up and staring. What the hell was going on? Who was Director Fury and what sort of incident did JARVIS mean? Who in their right mind had a wall that opened?

“The Mark VI is not yet complete, sir.”

“It’s complete enough. Send it in.” Tony extended an arm.

Peter forced his eyes away from the window just as a piece of metal flew through the living room and adhered itself to Tony’s hand like a parasite. Peter squeaked, there was no other description for it, and Tony finally looked at him.

“Mr Stark?” Peter said, faintly, as another piece of metal slammed onto Stark’s other arm.

It was followed by another, then another, red and gold pieces coming in rapid succession now, snapping into place around Tony like… like… 

Armor.

And Peter knew those colors, he recognized them, but it didn’t make any sort of sense. But when  _ did  _ anything make sense here?

“Yeah, uh,” Tony said, grunting as the chest plate landed, the sigil on the front glowing blue. “I probably should have mentioned before.”

It was the face plate last, fitting to the cradle of the helmet, completing the entombment of the man Peter had only just come to find familiar.

“I’m Iron Man.”

And he jetted out the window, shining like a gem in the darkness, leaving Peter huddled in his wake.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still in search of a beta! If interested, leave a comment with a way to contact you. :)

Peter had holed himself up in his quarters with the tv on and for once he was fully glued to the screen. He had only ever caught glimpses of news videos as he assisted the free men in charge of him so he did recognize the heroes on the live broadcast, but he had never had the luxury of watching them in action.

It was nerve wracking. He only caught glimpses of Iron Man zooming in and out of view, or his repulsors blowing the enemy backward. Every shot was a new scene to analyze as quick as he could before it disappeared, searching for flashes of red and gold in the chaos. The news anchors talked too much.

_ There _ was Iron Man. The red and gold armor came careening from between two buildings, pulling to a stop and aiming repulsors at an enemy that had cornered Hawkeye. The camera zoomed in close as a blast took the creature out.

It was Tony under there. Peter knew it was Tony, had seen the literal join of man and hero, but it was hard to believe. Iron Man saved people, valiantly, and at risk to his own life. Tony saved people.

He could see it in the little things when he looked closer. Tony and Iron Man had the same confident poise. Iron Man tilted his head the same way Tony did when he was assessing the situation, thinking about what to do next, though faster, with more urgency to the decision. Peter had even seen Tony extend his hand, palm out, in just that way at times, like a nervous tic or stretching an old injury.

A blur of motion crossed the screen and hit Iron Man at the waist, knocking him into a tail spin down, down, down. Peter was on his feet in the same instant, heart in his throat. The suit disappeared behind the roof of a building, still entwined with the creature that had taken him down.

He could die. He was just a person in a metal suit, not some creature from myth or magic. He was vulnerable in there, flesh and blood and bone. He created wondrous things, his mind spun ideas like cotton candy, but he was human for all of it. Peter had felt the proof of that.

And a small thought came up then, a niggle at the back of his mind. What happened to Peter if Stark died? He pushed that thought straight away again, out of his mind and into the nether.

Come back up Iron Man, Peter willed. Where was he? Had they hit the ground, or had Tony freed himself before that? Could the armor survive a fall like that, or the claws of the beast? The coverage had switched to Captain America bashing creatures with his shield, flinging them this way and that. Hawkeye, taking aim and shooting one down. Was no one saving Iron Man? Had they not noticed?

More changing views. Small cutouts of other feeds sprang up in the corner, small and useless. Could they not stay focused on one place? There was so much going on and the network was obviously trying to show all of it, springing from one dramatic scene to the next, but Peter didn't care about all that.

The coverage flicked to Hulk, smashing his way across a line of cars with both feet. The familiar red and gold armor was slung over one shoulder, one metal arm patting a huge green shoulder as Hulk raged. Peter collapsed back onto the couch, able to breathe again. Hulk set Iron Man on the ground--or flung him, maybe, it was hard to say for sure.

The screen changed again, away from the only thing Peter wanted to see. Stark was alive. He was okay enough to stand and walk.

And he was a hero. He saved people’s lives at risk to himself, and for what reward? From what Peter could see, Stark had everything he could ever want already and more. He could die helping people.

He’d helped Peter. Whatever ulterior motives he had, whatever use he had for Peter, he hadn’t done anything but improve Peter’s life. Maybe it didn’t matter if that was by design or chance, by whim or effort. He was clueless on Peter’s care but he had fed him, clothed him, and given him chances Peter didn’t deserve. He’d never even laid a finger on Peter and he had seemed so shocked at the insinuation--no, the  _ declaration _ \--that he should.

He saved people. He helped them. He helped Peter. The thought was stuck in his head, spinning round and round again. Tony had certainly given him things no one else ever had, taken care of Peter with a soft hand. He’d kept his promises, so far. Peter sat on a couch watching tv at Stark’s authorization. He had given Peter popcorn and soda, like a real human.

And in his mortal peril, Peter had thought of himself and what would happen to  _ him _ if Iron Man died. He was thankless. Ungrateful. Selfish. He  _ had _ cared what happened to Stark too, he had worried when he fell, feared for the man himself, but that should have been all he worried about. It was his duty to care about Stark and only Stark.

Peter found he was squeezing and twisting a throw pillow in his arms. Tony’s throw pillow. He released his grip and set it on the floor, wanting to do something but with no clue what that something was.

On the tv, the fight raged on, then ambled, until finally the Avengers were cleaning up the last of the stragglers. The fight was over. No more Captain America. No more Hulk. And no more Iron Man. They panned over damaged buildings and debris-strewn streets. 

Peter watched and he waited. They didn’t say that the Avengers were okay, but they didn’t say anyone was hurt either. Would they know by now? Surely someone would have noticed if there was a grave injury. It would be reported on. Wouldn’t it? Tony had continued to fight after falling so he couldn’t have been severely injured, but there was no telling if something else had happened after.

Peter retrieved his blanket from the bed and carried it to the tv, curling in, feet and arms tucked securely away. The news casts continued. Peter’s thoughts didn’t stop either.

It was dark hours later when the elevator dinged, the news repeating things they had been saying all night, recyling thoughts for lack of new ones. Peter shot to his feet and was hovering in the hallway by the time the doors had split fully open.

Tony was in the elevator, hair matted down and face weary. Dried blood was smeared along his right temple and his right eye was shot through with veins, but he was on his own two feet and there didn’t appear to be anything seriously wrong. The clothes he had been wearing were now wrinkled and worn but otherwise exactly as they had been just hours earlier, watching tv and sharing popcorn with Peter on the couch.

“Hey, kid,” Stark said, stepping from the elevator. The step hitched beneath him, one leg stiff at the hip, and Tony grimaced.

“Mr Stark.” Peter rushed forward, reaching to take the man’s arm then drawing back, thinking better of it. His hands hovered uncertainly as he tried to decide if he should touch or not, if he might hurt the man or be reprimanded for it. Tony smelled like sweat and copper, so strong he could taste it bitter at the back of his mouth.

“Whoa, hey.” Tony blinked at him then looked toward the doorway, the flicker of the television’s light reflecting on the walls and floor. “Oh.”

“You fell,” Peter said, finally touching one hand to Tony’s arm where a deep bruise was forming near the elbow. He had been thinking of that fall all night. The news had played it on repeat. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s okay.” Tony set a heavy palm on Peter’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. Peter’s hovering hand came to rest on top of Stark’s own, desperate to find its place, feeling the tremble of exhaustion in Stark’s bones. “Just armor bites, that’s all. Some sore muscles.”

Peter looked doubtfully at the blood on his face, the way he was holding all his limbs just slightly askew. He could see now that there were two small stitches just at the hairline above his temple, little threads holding a piece of him together.

“The armor needs work,” Tony confessed. “And I need a shower. But I’m fine.” 

Maybe Tony was okay. They wouldn’t have released him if he wasn’t, would they? Peter wasn’t sure. A slave never would, but Tony was a free man and the rules were always different for them. But he looked sort of okay, no active bleeding, no missing body parts. It didn’t eliminate the fear and panic that had been coursing through Peter all night but it did temper it.

“I just wanted to check on you. I didn’t exactly leave under the best circumstances.”

“You flew threw the  _ wall _ ,” Peter said, the disapproval strong even to his own ears. It had been a shock to see and then he’d been alone as JARVIS ushered him out, mind spinning.

“I put it down first,” Stark said blithely. “It was the fastest way to get the armor in and me out. Every floor can do it.”

Peter had spent so many hours worrying and wondering but now that Tony was back he didn’t know what to do or say. And the man had come for him. After all that, fighting villains and treating his injuries, he had come home and gone to Peter. Why? For what reason? Peter could wait for a visit. He was obligated to wait.

But waiting had been hard. He hadn’t known what to expect, or when he might even know. Peter had really thought he wouldn’t know more until the morning news, when there might be a final report on the status of the battle and the heroes who had fought in it. No part of him had anticipated a visit from the man himself, in the flesh, still weary from the events that had caused Peter such distress.

“Hey,” Stark said, voice dipping low and concerned. “You okay?”

Tony’s free hand came up and touched Peter hesitantly along his back, palm cupping his shoulder blade and arm a warm line across his back, conspicuous for all that it was barely touching him. Peter’s breath caught in his throat and he leaned forward, not quite daring to make further contact but needily absorbing the warmth radiating from his body.

Tony’s arm slid further up to cup his neck and the other fell from Peter’s shoulder to his waist, pulling him in close, grasp loose. He hadn’t realized just how tightly strung he had been until he felt the tiniest loosening in his muscles and his pulse, his whole body suddenly aching with it.

“I’m sorry,” Tony said, voice gravel and regret. “I should have told you sooner. I should’ve prepared you. I didn’t know you would… I didn’t know.”

Peter grounded his forehead against Tony, eyes shutting as he breathed in the scent of blood and metal and oil, and Tony himself. Carefully, he slid his own arms up and to Tony’s sides, not quite holding but pressing there, gripping his fingers into his shirt.

“It’s okay, Peter,” Tony repeated and his arms wrapped more firmly now, drawing Peter right up against him, flooding him with warmth and sensation. Peter could hear Tony’s breath drawing in and out, his heart thumping strong and steady. He aligned his own breathing to match.

The image of Iron Man falling flashed through his mind. Peter pushed it away, twisting his fingers hard in the man’s shirt, reminding himself that the past was the past.

It was okay now. Tony had come back. Tony had come  _ for him _ , and Peter didn’t know what that meant or why, but it soothed something inside him that he couldn’t identify. One of the monsters that accompanied him everywhere he went quieted down, slept gently in a burrow in his soul. Peter pushed closer against Tony, trying to climb into Tony’s own soul where he thought, maybe, there could be some safety.

There was something hard against his chest beneath Tony’s shirt, round and ridged. Peter’s right hand moved of its own accord, touching the edge of the thing there, puzzled.

Tony jerked. His arms loosened, the warmth of his hands disappearing from Peter’s neck and hip, whole body gone taut. He hadn’t liked that. Peter braced himself to be flung away, arms snapping into position behind his back, regretting.

But Tony had stilled again, arms around Peter but not quite touching for a long moment before both hands came to settle on Peter’s upper arms. He did push Peter back then but gently, slowly, his eyes a little wild just around the edges.

“It’s fine,” Stark said, and Peter wasn’t sure who he was talking to, who he was reassuring this time. Stark breathed in and out until the edges faded from his eyes. “You just surprised me.”

“Sorry, Mr Stark,” Peter said, voice a whisper, and didn’t move as Stark stepped back, hands letting him go.

“I didn’t tell you. There’s a lot I didn’t tell you.” Tony scrubbed at his hair. “I can show you now.”

Peter’s eyes flicked to Tony’s chest then away.

“Relax.” Tony held his arms out and wiggled his fingers, then gestured at Peter’s behind his back. “Come on. I thought we were past that.”

Peter reluctantly released his hands and brought his arms around his front instead, holding his elbows, one in each palm.

“Better.” And then Stark was lifting his shirt from the hem, fingers fumbling at first to grab at two layers of cloth and raise them both, exposing the button of his pants, his navel, the smooth muscled expanse of his stomach, and finally, no hesitation, the glowing sphere in his chest.

Peter stared at it, eyes wide. It was embedded in Tony’s chest, scar tissue knotted around its perimeter and cast in a soft blue glow. He couldn’t hear anything from it, not even a hum, and he wasn’t sure why he had expected it when he had never heard anything from the device before.

Tony tapped the surface of the glass in the center. “See, ticking along just fine.” He was looking at it too, and Peter didn’t think he was imagining the expression of relief.

“What is it?” Peter asked.

“It’s my arc reactor. It keeps me alive.” Tony pulled the double layers back down, hands pressing as if he could smooth out the wrinkles. “Someday I’ll tell you all about it.”

Between the undershirt and the overshirt, not a trace of light shone through. Peter wondered if that was on purpose. It had to be, if he had never seen even a hint of light before.

“I don’t know about you, but I could really use a seat and some whiskey. JARVIS, is there any whiskey on this floor?”

“No, sir. All alcohol has been removed.”

Tony grimaced. “Figures. My floor?”

Stark’s expectant eyes were on him. Peter licked his lips, glancing back toward the glow of his own television.

“No more news,” Tony said. “They’re wrong about everything anyway. They always are. So, my floor?”

“Okay.”

It was strange being back in Stark’s quarters. JARVIS had bustled him out straight after Tony had flown away, the window swinging silently shut as the elevator doors had closed. Everything was in its place when they arrived, as normal as it had been when Peter first arrived. His abandoned soda still sat on the coffee table. Had it really only been less than twelve hours ago? It felt like days.

You wouldn’t think the window could open like that. Peter approached it cautiously as Tony moved behind the bar, as if it might swing down at any moment and drop him out into the world. No visible hinges on the inside. The panels fit flush together, as tight as if they were permanently in place. Peter touched the join of two panels where he knew they had parted, had witnessed it with his own eyes, but there was nothing there.

“Every window in the tower can open,” Tony said from behind him. Peter turned and automatically accepted the glass Tony pressed at him, a finger of amber liquid sparkling inside. “It’s a safety feature. I need to be able to suit up and get out.”

“The suit comes to you,” Peter said. It had been on his mind, the way the pieces had come to Tony with a mind of their own, knowing where they belonged and fitting themselves there.

“They’re leashed.” Tony tapped his wrist with a fingertip then held the wrist out to Peter. “Go ahead.”

Peter remembered the way Tony had jerked when he touched the arc reactor and hesitated, but his curiosity had always been stronger than his caution. Carefully he reached out and tapped where Tony had tapped, feeling something hard beneath the skin. Metal. He drew away, discomfited.

“It calls the pieces when I need them. They can find me wherever I am.” Tony took a sip from his glass, turning and finding a seat on the couch. He sighed as he did it, head tilting back. “Oh god. I’m gonna pay hell tomorrow.”

Peter made his way to sit on the other side of the couch. He swirled his drink, contemplating it, then took his own small sip.

It burned. The bitter, sharp flavor flooded his mouth and it had been Peter’s choice to take a drink, but the memories came unbidden. He set the glass clumsily on the table, blinking hard to push away the mind-feel of hard hands, a harsh voice, the soft careening of the world around him.

Tony reached out and slid the glass away with two fingers. “Okay, that’s a no on whiskey?”

Peter swallowed hard, tongue working to try to drive the lingering taste away. “I don’t like whiskey.”

“What do you like?” Tony stood and ventured back to the bar, rummaging around, arms stiff but knowing exactly where to go. “Jack and coke? Rum? White Russian?” He looked at Peter and hummed. “Shirley Temple? Cranberry juice?”

Peter brought his legs onto the couch and leaned against the back cushion, resisting the urge to help. “I don’t know?”

“Rum and coke it is.” Tony started pouring. “It’s a classic, and this is the best rum on the market. You didn’t go through the whole drunken college routine so you won’t really appreciate it like you should, but that’s okay. I’ll give you some bottom shelf tequila some day and we’ll get sick together. It’ll be great.”

Some day? Together? Stark was making plans for them, together. In the future. Horrible plans, it sounded like, but plans. 

Was he not selling Peter? Things had improved since the beginning but he had never said anything about it. Peter had just assumed...

“And voila.” Tony set a glass of dark liquid on the table, and a full can of soda beside that. “Drink up. Or don’t. Just don’t vomit on the couch, okay? It’s real leather.”

Tony took another drink of his glass, face all satisfaction, then eased himself slowly down and turned on the tv. He looked wrecked, Peter noted as he took a sip of the new drink, finding it more mild, sweeter, and with only a small burn at the tail end. He took another sip, then settled back into the couch himself, feeling like an imposter.

He had  _ alcohol _ . His own glass. Stark had no idea what he was doing, and it was sort of great.

“Okay, finish the episode or something new? I’m pretty sure there’s a lot to catch you up on. Your choice.”

Peter swallowed down another mouthful. “Um. Finish the episode?” He felt a sort of camaraderie with Eleanor, now that he had seen the last episode of the season and knew the truth of it. Tony had seemed to enjoy it too.

“Hey, uh, newbie. You might wanna slow down on the guzzling. Something tells me you’re no heavy hitter.”

Peter licked the sticky sweet liquid from his lips. “It’s good,” he ventured, a little defensively, and pointedly took a much smaller sip this time. 

Tony’s expression changed then, just slightly, piercing and thoughtful like he was coming to a conclusion on something. It came and was gone within a moment, so quickly Peter wondered if he had been mistaken and nothing had been there at all.

“It’s not so great on the way back up. But hey, sometimes we have to learn from our own mistakes,” Tony sipped from his again and started the episode where they had left off.

Peter took it slower, he really did, but by the end of the episode he was out. Tony brought him another, this time with something sweet and red mixed in, and Peter wasn’t sure because of the extra sweetness but he thought maybe it wasn’t as strong. He drank that one too.

“Mm, no,” Tony said when Peter set his empty glass down and looked at Tony. “You’re cut off. I’m cutting you off.”

Peter huffed but didn’t argue, grabbing the unopened soda Tony had brought him instead. He was warm and fuzzy inside, a stark contrast to the stress and fear he had felt earlier while Tony was away possibly saving people, possibly dying a horrible death. The current feeling was much, much better, like a hug or a friendly touch but all over inside him.

“I’ve made a huge mistake,” Tony murmured, gazing at him, the television’s light flickering over his face, before shaking his head and turning back to the show. He had sprawled out as time went on, leaning back against the arm of the couch, hand flung casually over the back and legs askew before him.

Looking at Tony, feeling the warmth inside him, reminded Peter of the hug from earlier. It had been… nice. Comforting. He wondered if Tony would do it again, if he asked.

Peter couldn’t ask. He sat up a little straighter just at the thought, horrified with himself. What had gotten into him? It was the drink, it had to be the drink. But he hadn’t been acting very appropriately earlier either, had he? 

Tony had liked it though. He was pretty sure of that, or at least as sure as he could be about anything to do with Tony. Peter looked at him again from the corner of his eye, pretending to watch the tv. Tony, safe and sound, bruised and bloodied around the edges but there. Tony had tucked one foot onto the couch, the other hanging off at the knee, leaving a space behind his legs. Maybe if Peter just…

Peter brought his bare feet onto the couch, butting up against the arm, and let his upper body lean the other way, toward Tony. No reaction. Peter eased himself down slowly, trying not to let the cushions shift with his movement and alert Tony. It was harder to be subtle about it than he expected, his balance wobbly and head unreasonably warm, but he managed somehow. His back slid smoothly against the leather, down down down, until he finally, delicately, laid his head on Tony’s hip, tucking himself neatly behind his legs.

Tony took notice then, clearly startled, but he didn’t draw away. They stared at one another for a moment, Tony looking as uncertain as Peter felt. The light of the tv cast his cheekbones sharp with shadows but the rest of his face was softened. Peter concentrated on taking deep, even breaths, determined not to draw away himself, to wait and see.

What was Tony thinking? Peter wondered. He wasn’t pushing Peter off. He wasn’t moving away. There was no anger or condemnation in his eyes, not even mild annoyance, but not much of anything else either. Peter didn’t know what he had expected and Tony gave him very little to guess from.

A miniscule change of expression. “You good?” Tony asked, voice grainy. 

“Yes,” Peter said, and he was.

Tony did shift then. A warm arm slipped between Peter’s head and the cushions, draping across his neck to lay a large hand on his shoulder.

“Still good?” Tony’s voice was light, as if the question was inconsequential, but Peter was suddenly sure the touch would be gone in a split second if he disagreed.

Peter didn’t disagree. He wanted that hand to stay there forever. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Tony nodded and turned back to the tv but Peter got the feeling his attention hadn’t fully left them, together on the couch. Peter tried not to think about it and willed Tony to do the same. They grew more relaxed by increments, settling into the gaps the other had left, Peter’s limbs unfurling. Peter wasn’t sure he had ever felt so comfortable and relaxed in his life.

Tony’s hand left his shoulder as Tony reached for his glass, swallowing the last of its contents, and when the hand returned it was on Peter’s head this time. Tony didn’t even seem to know he had done it, attention captured by the episode. His fingers began to stroke idly through Peter’s hair, at times burying themselves to the scalp and rubbing there, and at others just toying with the strands themselves. It sent a frisson of warmth and unidentifiable feeling through Peter’s whole body.

This had to be heaven. How could something feel so good? Peter let his eyes flutter closed and gave himself into the sensation, the alcohol a soft hum in the background, almost like the sedative but somehow friendlier, more like a coaxing touch than a hammer to the brain. He sighed and turned his head into it as a thumb rubbed above his ear.

Tony’s fingers fumbled, paused, then resumed their ministrations more tentatively than before. Peter didn’t dare open his eyes, or maybe didn’t care enough to try. He should be doing this for Stark, not the other way around, but Tony seemed okay with it. He had started it, Peter hadn’t asked, and that seemed like enough.

“Your hair’s getting long,” Tony rumbled, barely audible. When Peter looked, Tony was staring down at him with dark, heavy lidded eyes. He looked so, so tired. “Do you want a cut?”

Peter reached up to touch his hair, feeling the length that had grown. It had been buzzed when he arrived but now it was long enough that it was starting to fall onto his forehead. Did he want to cut it? That was a strange and difficult question, but he knew enough by now to know that Tony meant it. Peter contemplated the idea, twisting the strands around his finger, wondering what it might feel like to let it grow even more.

“I don’t know,” Peter finally said, letting his hand drop. He tucked it away behind Tony’s knee, wriggling his fingers into the warmth. Tony let him.

“You can let it grow until you can’t stand it anymore,” Tony suggested. “The shaggy look is good on you.”

Peter smiled and shut his eye, laying his breezy head back down and pretending it was an accident the way it nudged into Tony’s still hand. Tony resumed his petting, strong fingers sliding deep into the mess of his hair and massaging, twisting, soothing, gaining confidence now.

He was a lost cause. It was ridiculous. There was no way Peter had any right to enjoy a single moment of it or feel these emotions. 

But it was nice to enjoy something. It was nice to sink into the warmth and the soft touches and believe that maybe things would be okay. Maybe Tony had meant it, all of it, and maybe the constant chase would finally end. Maybe Peter would finally outrun the monsters that gnawed at his insides, that ate every good thing before he could have it for himself.

And maybe Tony couldn’t be trusted, but he hadn’t lied yet and that could be enough.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the reviews, kudos, and bookmarks! I appreciate every single one. :)

Peter was sitting cross legged at the coffee table, a book on electromagnetism open before him, when the elevator dinged. He had wound himself up in a thick blanket to fight off the morning chill and it hobbled him as he shot to his feet, fighting against the curls and folds of it around his legs. Tony strode into the room before he could get loose. He was dressed in a sharp gray suit and dark shades, the picture of the man Peter had seen that first day. Peter gave up the blanket fight and instead dove down to slam the book shut, trying not to look guilty.

“We’re going out,” Tony said, then blinked at the mess of blanket and Peter, the suddenly shut book. “Uh. Okay. JARVIS, tell Peter when I’m coming up here in future.”

“Noted, sir. I will inform Peter when you are approaching.”

“Thanks.” Tony wandered over toward Peter, pulling the shades off. “Sorry, the other floors are shared or… mine. Not really used to this whole privacy on the main floor thing.”

“It’s your floor,” Peter said, sitting stiffly as Tony picked up the book he had been reading.

“It’s yours,” Tony corrected, humming. “Electromagnetism, huh? Interesting subject. Good book, but a little too much like a text book. It’s better as a supplement. I think my favorite one might be up here actually, I have several copies.” 

Tony set the book down and made his way to the bookshelf, fingers trailing over the spines. Peter watched, relaxing minutely. He could use anything on the floor, Tony had said that, but Peter hadn’t quite known if the books counted. Books were different; Tony had mentioned the television and games, but hadn’t said anything about books.

“Ah, here it is. This one’s better.” He pulled a slim paperback out. “This one’s more of a discussion, but there’s good information. It’s a more interesting read.” He pulled another out. “This one goes into detail about the equations without overexplaining it.”

Tony deposited both books neatly atop the one already on the table, sliding down to sit there himself. Peter reached out to touch the new books, finger idly riffling the pages.

“You don’t have to read them,” Tony said. “They’re better than the beast you have out though.”

“Thank you,” Peter said.

“Yeah, sure. If you ever want more, I have a lot on my floor and in the lab.” Tony drummed on the coffee table, thinking. “I have an extra StarkPad around here somewhere, or I can order you a new one. Then you have access to everything.”

“Like what you have?” Peter asked, perking up at the thought. “With the- the holograms?

“Mm, yeah, no. That’s kind of… a lab thing. It interfaces with the StarkPad though so when you have one, you can do that in the lab too. JARVIS, add Peter into the permissions and track down a StarkPad for him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And a phone too. You want a phone?”

Peter had never had a phone. Or any electronics for that matter.

“I’ll get you a phone. If you don’t like it, you can just chuck it in a drawer or something. JARVIS, get Peter a phone too.”

“Mr Stark-” Peter protested.

“Don’t Mr Stark me. You’re getting a phone. You’ll love it. Look, you got any plans today?”

“Work in the lab with you?”

“Yeah, we’re not doing that today.” Tony leaned back on the balls of his hands and stretched his neck back, giving it a crick left and right. “You wanna go out?”

“Out.” Peter said. “Like-”

“Like outside. In the world.” Tony waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the windows. “Where the wild things are. Out.”

Peter hadn’t been outside since arriving. Stark Tower was a peculiarly  _ inside _ sort of place, compared to the other places he had stayed. 

“There’s a thing. I think it could be fun.” Tony wasn’t looking at him anymore, lips pursed. “Or, you know, you could sit in here and miss out on all the fun. Maybe read some more boring books. Or I could send you out with someone else if you want, let you wander around how you want. I could take a day in, been a while since I had a day off-”

“Out sounds good,” Peter interrupted because something had gone sideways there and he wasn’t quite sure what or why. “With you.”

“Oh. Good.” Tony put the shades back on. “Great. How long for you to be ready?”

Peter stared. “I’m… ready?”

“Right, the whole-” Tony grimaced. “Okay.”

Peter had forgotten how long it took to take the elevator up or down the whole building; he hadn’t even been quite all there when he had come up but it had seemed like forever. It had to be a faster elevator than normal because the floor numbers changed at alarming speed, but there were also a lot of floors.

“Mr Stark,” Peter ventured.

Tony looked up from his phone where he had been tapping furiously since the doors closed. “What’s up?”

“How fast does the elevator go?”

Tony didn’t even blink. “70 feet per second. Fastest elevator in the world. JARVIS, that still true?”

“Yes, sir. The next fastest elevator is the Shangai Tower at 67 feet per second.”

“They’re catching up. I’m working on it.” Tony tapped once more on his phone then slipped it away to an inside pocket. “Here’s us.”

Being out with Tony was weird. Peter had just gotten used to the tower and Tony inside the tower, but Tony outside the tower was something else entirely. He seemed as casual and uncaring as always as they emerged from the gleaming sports car that he had let Peter himself choose by hand from a long, gleaming row of them. There was a tension underneath Tony’s demeanor that wasn’t there in the lab, an awareness of the people all around them, the eyes watching.

Peter felt that tension too but where Tony seemed to grow larger with it, Peter tucked himself away.

“Don’t, hey, don’t do that. What are you doing?” Tony had only taken two steps before he stopped and whipped around.

Peter raised his hands, helpless. “Sir?”

“What is this? Is this a back slide? No back sliding.”

Peter waited. If he didn’t say anything eventually Tony would say more. It was sort of how he worked, and Peter was so glad he was finally figuring out how the man ticked at least a bit, the little ticks and habits.

Tony didn’t disappoint. “No more sirs. And why are you walking like that? I can’t see you.”

“I walk two feet behind you.” Peter said. “It’s proper.”

“Do I look like I care about proper?”

Peter looked at him in his perfectly pressed and fitted gray suit, the blue striped tie, shined shoes and stylish shades.

“Point taken,” Tony said. “Just walk beside me, okay? Don’t be different. I don’t like different.”

“Yes. Mr Stark.” Peter took two steps forward, setting himself to Tony’s side like they did in the lab when Tony needed him to help with something. “Is this not-different enough?”

“Yeah. That’s good. Let’s go.”

Tony hadn’t actually told him where they were going and Peter hadn’t asked. He didn’t feel inclined to. It was nice being out in the bracing fresh air and the open sky, if a bit overwhelming to suddenly be surrounded by cars and people on all sides. Tony had taken them somewhere out of the way, at least, but there was no escaping people in New York.

They  _ were  _ noticing. Peter saw them from the corner of his eye as he walked a carefully measured distance from Tony’s side. Heads turned. People whispered and pointed. Tony didn’t look at them but he did jostle Peter around to walk on his other side, at the inside of the sidewalk, tucking him from view.

Peter relaxed but only minutely. “I really should be walking behind you,” he said, voice as low as he could pitch it without being lost in the background noise.

“Yeah, heard you the first time. Still don’t care.”

Peter shook his head, then bowed it. There would be no talking sense into Tony. There never was.

A hand touched Peter’s lower back. “This one here.”

It was a relatively unassuming door, old and wooden with panes of frosted glass along the top. The sign read, simply,  _ Tesoro _ . 

It was a mid-sized shop with racks of clothing around the perimeter and a podium in the center of the room. An aging man looked up as the bell above the door sang.

“Mr Stark. A pleasure to see you again.” He came smoothly to his feet, smiling as he set aside a packet of papers and a pen.

“You too. Been a while. Place looks nice.” Tony removed his sunglasses. “Thanks for taking my appointment on short notice, Mr Marchetti.”

“Of course, Mr Stark. What are you looking for today? Your people didn’t specify.”

“It’s not for me, actually.” Tony nudged Peter forward. “It’s for him.”

Mr Marchetti looked at Peter. His eyes landed on the collar but didn’t linger. Peter half expected him to decline, to explain to Tony that it was ridiculous to use his services on a slave, but the man only smiled sedately.

“Of course. I’ll need measurements.”

Tony steered Peter to the podium and Mr Marchetti set to work. This was easy. This was something Peter could handle, moving as he was told to move, staying still, saying nothing. He could ignore the hands patting him down, stretching tape measures along his limbs, around his body.

“You like this?”

Peter had started to let himself zone out, but of course Stark wouldn’t allow that. He hid the irritation behind a neutral facade.

Tony was holding up a light blue long sleeve made of some soft, woolly material. Peter lifted an arm as he was bidden, face blanked as he nodded. Whatever Tony wanted.

“Yeah, me neither.” Tony hung it back on the rack. “I think you’re more of a red, huh?”

Peter was a captive audience. He bore it with quiet patience, turning this way and that, nodding as Stark pulled out shirts and pants at seeming random, examining seams and cuts. None of it made any sense to Peter. Everything looked expensive, too expensive to put him in, but so was the food in his refrigerator and the tools Tony was teaching him to use. The time to protest had passed a long time ago.

“I think this is all good,” Tony said as Mr Marchetti was packing up all his supplies. “One of each. Two of the suit, actually, one black and one gray. You like those colors?”

“Yes, sir,” Peter said, waiting patiently on the podium to be told what to do next.

“Great.” Tony didn’t look amused. “Send them as they’re finished, not all at once.”

“I will arrange the deliveries myself, Mr Stark.”

“Thank you. Peter, come on down.”

Peter did, stepping to his side. Tony ushered him out, tense and unhappy.

He didn’t speak until they had left the shop and were halfway down the sidewalk. “Alright. What’s up? What’s with the mute routine?”

Peter tried not to frown, struggling to keep up with the pace Tony had set. “It’s improper for me to-”

“There’s that word again. Proper. Improper. How many times do I have to tell you I don’t care?”

“You should care,” Peter said, frustration spilling out.

“Well I don’t. Have you met me?” Tony stopped walking, turning on him with his own frustration. “Been on the internet for five minutes? I’m all over it. I’m not known for being proper. There are videos.”

“It’s not-”

“Watch one of the opening presentations for Stark Expo and talk to me again about proper,” Tony cut over him. Peter darted a glance around, hoping no one was listening in. “I’m shameless, Peter, get used to it.”

“I can’t-”

“You can and you will. I have fuck you amounts of money. What’s the point if I can’t say fuck you sometimes?”

“It’s not-”

“Or a lot of times. The point is, I do what I want and by extension so do you. That’s just-”

“ _ Tony _ .”

Tony’s mouth shut so quickly his teeth clacked. Peter wasn’t sure if it was the distress or the name, but he filed the reaction away to evaluate later. He took his chance to speak while he had it.

“It’s not that easy,” Peter said quietly. “There are-there are rules. Regulations.  _ Laws _ .”

“The law says you can’t talk to me?”

“No,” Peter said. It was hard to talk about the things he knew only implicitly, and it was even harder to do it while not looking like he was schooling his master. “I don’t think so.”

“Then do it. Talk to me.”

“There are rules-”

“You keep saying that. Why should I care?”

“Because.” Peter frowned. “We’ll get in trouble. They’ll… If they think you’re encouraging, um, if they think you’re degrading the whole-”

“Peter. Spit it out.”

“They’ll take me for evaluation. They’ll fine you.” 

Peter wanted to fidget, to move away from Tony or maybe toward him, to do anything at all. Instead he slipped his arms behind his back and gripped his hands tightly together.

“Evaluation.”

A wave of relief rushed through Peter. Tony was listening, finally.

“What do they evaluate?”

“Me.” Peter had only been through it once. It was an exit exam of sorts from the Institution, a full barrage of evaluations testing his every thought and action, his every instinct. He shook his head once, trying not to look as spooked as he felt. “Mr Stark-”

“Okay.” Tony said, a calming hand coming to rest on Peter’s shoulder. He was reading Peter in that way he had, reading right down to his core. “We’ll do it your way. Two feet behind me. No talking. No emotions. Pure robot Peter.”

“I can walk beside you,” Peter offered. “I can do whatever you want when no one can hear us.” Everyone bent the rules in private. Everyone ignored one regulation or another in the privacy of their own home, though usually it was something to the detriment of the slave rather than the benefit.

“Should I cancel the clothes?” Stark grimaced. “JARVIS, is that a law?”

“No, sir. There are very few regulations concerning clothing a slave may wear, aside from any sort of covering in public places.”

“We’re good on the clothes then. Right?” Tony was asking him. Trusting him.

“Yes,” Peter said.

“What else?” Tony asked. “I had more plans for today. Can you eat in public? Should I starve you whenever we’re out, would that make them happy?”

“I can eat.” Peter didn’t know all the regulations and laws, honestly. He knew what had been drilled into him his whole life. He knew the things he had seen people evaluated for. “Mostly I can’t talk to you. Not… like that.”

“Like that,” Tony repeated, uncomprehending.

“We can’t be-” Peter stopped, struggling for words, his hand coming up to touch the collar. “Friends.”

Tony’s eyes went hard as they lit upon the collar. “Fine. But you gotta help me out here. I’ve seen people with slaves at events and in public, but they do a damn fine job of staying in the background so I haven’t paid much attention. They don’t seem to need to be asked, they just do.”

_ And I don’t. _ Peter cast his eyes down, shamed. He wasn’t fit to be a Bradley Institution graduate, and he certainly wasn’t fit for  _ Iron Man himself.  _ He was ruined and he had thought maybe Tony hadn’t realized it, clueless as he was to the world he had stepped into, but of course he had known the whole time. He had seen the best slaves on offer at the beck and call of other people.

He must have been so disappointed to get Peter.

“I can do that,” Peter said quietly. “I can learn, I promise. I just, I haven’t quite figured it out but-.”

“No, hey.” Tony’s hand cupped his cheek and urged him to look up. “That’s not what I meant. Those people, they’d all been together for years. It’s not the same. And I’m… not the easiest person to live with. I think the things I want are things you haven’t been equipped to handle.”

He was wrong. Tony was so absolutely wrong, but Peter couldn’t bring himself to tell him so. Let him believe in Peter for as long as that could last.

“I’m the one that needs to change out here,” Tony declared, dropping his hand. “I can play the part. I can tell you to do things that I’m perfectly capable of.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Peter offered tentatively. “If… If you’ll let me.” 

It wasn’t what Tony actually wanted, having Peter do these things. He had figured that out the day they met. Tony never had told him what he was there to do or what he wanted, had he? Peter had figured things out on his own as he could, doing the few things Tony directly asked and intuiting the rest as best he could. An imperfect effort.

Tony didn’t want what a regular master wanted. Tony didn’t ask for things the others did. He certainly didn’t want Peter serving those duties now just because they were in public.

But he had agreed to it. And if he agreed to it then Peter could do it too, even knowing Tony didn’t want it.

“Let you?” Tony rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head. “This is your world. We do what you want. You’re in charge out here.”

For once it was Tony who didn’t quite know how to act. He put on a good show, no doubt about that, but Peter could feel the unease rolling off him in waves. They made their way through several shops, Tony ordering Peter to give measurements of his wrists, to try on this shoe, to sit there and wait. There was no flaw in his execution or his tone.

But he wouldn’t look at Peter as he ordered him this way and that, and there was a tension in him that wasn’t there when they were outside alone, walking together with no one to observe. Tony Stark was out of his element.

Peter couldn’t quite remember the last time he had felt so at ease. He slotted into his rightful place and turned off his mind, letting habit take him, rusty as it was. It had come stuttering back in a door opened by hand as Tony neared it, a quiet collecting of things Tony set down.  _ This _ was what Peter had been made for. He may have lost some of that spark since leaving the Institution, but this he could do.

And Tony accepted it wordlessly. Uncomfortably.

“You good?” Tony asked as they emerged into the afternoon sun, not looking at Peter as he asked, eyes scanning the street.

Peter thought probably someone should be asking Tony that question, actually. He looked like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

“Yes, Mr Stark.”

He looked at Tony, who finally looked back. Peter considered. It was allowed. It wasn’t the most common behavior but it wasn’t uncommon either. It spoke to a certain soft sentiment or proclivity in the master, but as long as no big mistakes were made then no questions would be raised. That was even assuming anyone was watching. Tony’s reactions indicated nothing.

He thought maybe Tony needed the reassurance, and if that wasn’t his job then what was? It wasn’t something Peter would mind so much either.

Peter stepped closer to Tony, eyes down. He paused a moment then leaned in and set his forehead carefully at the joint of Tony’s shoulder and chest. He transmuted obeisance in every visible part of him, but tilted his head to peek at Tony with one eye.

Tony was, clearly, at a loss. After a moment he set a hand on the back of Peter’s head, winding his fingers in the strands just as he had each night the past week as they watched tv together. Peter could have purred.

“I’m okay,” he reiterated quietly, leaning into the touch.

“Guess so.” Tony rubbed his scalp, just lightly, and murmured: “Not gonna lie, not really sure what I’m supposed to do here. I’ve never pet someone in public before.”

Peter straightened up and took his place at Tony’s side again. Maybe it had been a little bit for himself too.

“Right.” Tony didn’t even look at him. “Time for the main event. I hope you’re hungry.”

The main event, it turned out, was some sort of fenced market filled with booth after truck after table of mouse-sized food portions. Tony had changed into jeans and a t shirt then donned a hat and shades, blending in with the crowds of people clamoring for samples. There were foods familiar and foreign. Soft drinks and juices and coffees and more. Peter had never seen so much variety in one place.

Peter had shuffled into Tony’s side as they entered, overwhelmed and uncertain. Why had Stark brought him here? He had never commented on Peter’s new-found enthusiasm for food, but he had pointedly ordered in something new each night for dinner. So why tease him now?

But as they came to the first table--spaghetti with a little hard crisp of bread--Tony grabbed two small cups and pushed one into Peter’s hand. “Eat this.”

Peter froze, cup in hand. There were too many people close by to protest. The comfortable auto-pilot he had fallen into had evaporated, leaving him at odds with himself once again.

“Relax,” Tony said, slinging an arm around his waist and leading him away from the crowds, all confidence. “I’ve seen this one. I may not know how to actually keep a man alive but I know how to be an asshole who does what he wants. It’s kind of my thing.”

Peter clenched the cup, looking at the noodles and sauce inside. They had talked about this. “Mr Stark…”

“No, listen. I’ve been thinking about it. You’re right, there are certain lines  _ you  _ can’t cross, but there are a whole lot of them that  _ I _ can. No talking back, sure. No defiance, great. But I’ve seen enough to know that I can bend the rules, and if that means I want to bring my slave with me when I sample, there’s not much they can argue against. You eat what I want you to eat, right?”

Peter nodded hesitantly.

“I want you to eat that. And that and that and that.” Tony waved a hand to encompass the market. “All of it actually. So how about you worry about doing what you do and I worry about doing what I do.”

Peter wasn’t sure that was a good idea but there wasn’t much use arguing. He knew what Tony was like when he used that tone.

“Don’t give me that look,” Tony said, stepping in closer with a grin to push the cup against his chest. “I’ve got this. Hey, I’ll even pretend I don’t care what you think, how ‘bout that? All me, all the time. Does that sound okay?”

Peter looked down at his feet. He wanted to go home, suddenly, back to the comfort of his own floor. He wanted to work in the lab with Tony and later watch something over dinner. Him and Tony, alone.

“Hey.” Tony’s voice had lost the joking edge. He stepped forward, bringing his own feet into view. “If the answer is no, just say the word. You’re in charge, remember?”

Peter lifted his head a little, focusing on Tony’s chest where he knew the arc reactor hid. 

“I’m a little hard to handle sometimes. I know that.” Tony said it like an unfortunate truth he had come to accept, a personal failing to be apologized for. “But trust me on this. I can do it, and you’re gonna love this place.”

Peter looked at him then, gauging. Maybe he was right. Peter was limited but Tony had more leeway. He already had a long history of doing the unexpected, if Peter’s eavesdropping was right, and that was some sort of protection. He glanced around, taking in the booths of food and drink, the people so busy living their own lives that they hardly glanced at a slave and his master off to the side.

“I won’t let anything happen,” Tony promised, and he certainly appeared earnest. Tony had never failed him yet.

Peter nodded. “Okay.”

“If you change your mind just, I don’t know, squeeze my elbow and we’ll go. No words necessary.”

Peter nodded again, liking the idea. An out, if he needed it.

“Great. Now that it looks like I’ve just chewed you out in public, how about some pizza next? I hear the new place down the street is here with some sort of jalapeno ghost pepper combination. You like spicy food?”

Peter looked at the cup in his hand, hesitated, then took a bite of the spaghetti. The burst of flavor made him hum, eyes fluttering as he savored it, stomach growling as it realized its hunger. Maybe this was worth a little risk.

Tony was staring at him, and Peter realized he hadn’t answered the question. Jalapeno and ghost peppers. “I-I don’t know.”

“Ah, right.” Tony’s eyes were on him as bit into the crunchy bread slice next. “No, um… What was I asking?” 

“Peppers?” The bread was too crunchy, really. It scratched the top of his mouth and rained little crumbs all over his hand.

Tony stepped back, nodding. “Right, yeah, spicy food! Let’s start with something mild, huh? Street tacos, coming right up.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be updated on an every two weeks schedule going forward, most of the time, and generally on Saturday mornings.
> 
> Also, Deadpool is still coming, I promise.
> 
> Thank you to my beta readers, Teafortobyyy7 and TheRegalHarvester, for helping me to keep this damn thing going and going right.

Tacos (fine and too spicy, in turns). Thai food. Ramen. Barbecue. Indian. Peter’s head spun with all the different flavors, gulping down tasters and tiny drinks as Tony pushed them his way. Tony had been right. Probably this was the best day of his life. How could there be so many different flavors in the world? How did they not run out? There was no way it was proper to scarf everything down with such gusto but Tony pushed the next thing onto him as quickly as he finished the first.

They slowed down as they went, from breakneck speed to an easy amble, but the sheer ecstasy never left. Peter kept it tamped down as best he could but at times found himself humming as he ate or sighing with satisfaction at something particularly flavorful. Tony didn’t comment, but he never did at home either.

“You’ve had this before,” Tony said, laying out his set of five samplers on the brick planter they had made their table where Peter had set his own. It was the only place they could get away from the bustle of people. “Chicken chow mein. Lemon chicken. Broccoli beef. Egg foo young. Not really sure what this last one is, to be honest.”

“I saw dessert,” Peter said delicately. An observation, that was all, but he looked at Tony from under his lashes as he said it, gauging.

He got it. “We can hit those next.” Tony picked up a sampler and scooped up a portion. “I’m getting full too.”

Peter wasn’t sure that ‘full’ was the right word for it. He thought he would be happy trying every single item all over again still, a bottomless pit of yearning that wouldn’t go away. It was just that the sweet scent of sugar and fruit had wafted temptingly close as they neared that section of the event.

“You’re choosing dinner next time. I’d have had you make a list but that would have been one of those conspicuous actions you keep scolding me about.”

Peter wrinkled his nose and took another bite. He had hardly said a word about any of it, actually. Tony had done a lot of things at the food market that had made Peter’s nerves sing, but he had only insisted on carrying his own samples and eating only at those booths that Tony selected from as well. Everything else could be excused as an indulgent master and Peter wasn’t sure he could keep Tony from playing that role. It was probably even the truth.

“So just remember your favorites.”

“There’re too many,” Peter said helplessly, trying to think back to anything he had liked more than the rest but finding his memory overwhelmed with all the different things he had tried. There hadn’t been anything he would turn down if it was offered again.

“They really never gave you any real food? None of your previous owners?”

“Owner,” Peter corrected, looking down at his cup of chicken. “Just the one. Before you.”

“How’s that possible? Unless your last owner had both a line of high fashion purses and ran a highly successful law firm at the same time-”

Peter’s head whipped up. “You  _ did _ read my file.”

“Parts of it,” Tony corrected. “It’s in progress. Don’t tell Pepper, she thinks I’m already done.”

Peter started on his third sampler cup, staring at Tony and trying to decide which was better, Tony continuing with no knowledge or knowing all the gritty details. He had wished in the beginning that Tony had known it all under the working theory that he would then know what to do with Peter, but he was pretty sure that never would have been the case. Tony was Tony whether he knew the rules or not.

So what would change if Tony knew everything?

“I thought you’d be happy. You don’t look happy.”

“Sir?” Peter asked, taking another bite.

“Don’t play dumb with me. I know better.” Tony took the sunglasses off and set them aside, dark eyes focused on Peter. “You don’t want me to read your file.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to say it out loud. You’re very expressive, did you know that? Especially when you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Yeah. You are. Why are you mad? Did you not want me to know you’ve had more owners before me? Because I really don’t care, baby, I’m an open minded kind of guy.”

The word gave Peter pause, nevermind the joke that bordered on something Peter wasn’t entirely sure Tony knew the full truth of.

“I’m kind of curious now though. To know how many.”

There was no one else around still when Peter checked. They were a good distance away from the crowd and the vendors.

“I haven’t had multiple owners before you,” Peter said, exasperated, as he shoved in another mouthful and chewed. He was down to one cup of sampler and he would have really liked to have eaten it in peace. “And I’m not mad.”

“Fine. You’re not mad.” Tony didn’t sound like he believed him. “But I’ve read enough of your file to know you’ve worked under more than just me and the last guy.”

“They didn’t own me. They rented me. It’s different.”

Tony stared. Peter dug into the last cup. The explosion of flavor immediately lit him up inside, little sparks of wonder that something could taste so incredibly good.

“What’s this again?” Peter asked, showing Tony the cup as he scooped out the rest.

“Lemon chicken. Back up, rented? There’s a rental service?”

“It’s part of the training at Bradley.” Peter ate the last bite, disappointed it was gone so quickly. Maybe this was a favorite. He could eat it again. “To prove we’re reliable outside. To make us flexible.” He had passed at the time.

“So they rent you out to people who, presumably, get to do whatever the hell they want until the rental is over? That’s fucked up.”

Peter stacked the empty cups in front of him, frowning. “They can’t permanently damage us.” He wondered if he should ask to get more. They had had a constant stream of samples since arriving so he hadn’t needed to even think about it.

“Hm. You break it, you buy it. That how it works?”

It was accurate enough. Peter nodded.

“Okay, next question.” Tony slid his last full sampler to Peter. “Eat that first.”

Peter wasn’t going to argue. There was more lemon chicken and that could only be a good thing. He shoved a bite into his mouth.

“Why don’t you want me to read your file?”

The file was Tony’s to read and it was his right to do so. It came with Peter for a reason. 

“Don’t even think about lying.”

There was absolutely no reason Tony shouldn’t read the file.

“I can see you thinking about it. Stop. Why?”

“Will things change?” Peter asked, because asking was so much easier than saying. Asking was excusable. He took another bite, putting aside the thought and replacing it with sweet, sauce-y chicken.

“No.” Tony frowned. “Maybe. In all honesty, I don’t even know what you mean. What do you not want to change?”

_ Anything. _ “Nothing.”

“Wow, you skipped thinking about it and went straight to doing.” Tony peeked into each empty cup in front of him, then eyed the stack Peter had made. “Use your words.”

“Why else would you read it?” That was the crux of it, really. Why read it now? Nothing good could come of it. Life had never been so kind to Peter and any change at this point could only be for the worse.

“I mean, I kind of thought I was supposed to read it. Pepper stressed that actually.”

Peter swirled his fork around in the empty cup. “Yes, sir.”

“Not this again.” Tony pointed at him and got to his feet. “Stay here.”

He hadn’t put the sunglasses on again and people were noticing but Tony hardly seemed to care, head up and stride as confident as always. Peter picked up the stack of cups he had made, fidgeting with them, eyes on the place Tony had disappeared into the crowd.

He didn’t even know what was in his file aside from the basics. Medical history, genetic testing. Details about the experiment and his powers, and that did make him uneasy. A description of each placement at the Institution, and more detail about his previous ownership. What else would they include? Most affective punishments, probably. Bad habits? Strengths and weaknesses?

Possible uses.

Enough to get him into trouble if Tony took the information to heart. To give him ideas or make him see the error of his ways. What had he read already? Peter had never set eyes on the file himself to know the order of the report but with Tony there was no guarantee he would read it sequentially anyway.

Movement in the crowd caught his eye. A blonde girl had emerged from the edge of the crowd and was pointing at Peter. He sat up straighter and searched for any sign of Tony, hoping the man would appear again. An unattended slave could be commanded by anyone, as long as it was within reason, and a slave suspected of having  _ escaped _ …

But there was Tony, slipping by people with a tray layered with cups of different sizes. Peter came to his feet and met Tony halfway, bowing his head down as he took the tray from Tony’s hands, anxious with the need to work. People were looking at them now. Tony’s sunglasses were still on the table and Peter was nearly twitching with nerves.

Tony’s sharp eyes didn’t miss a thing. “Good job holding my spot,” he said, voice pitched just loud enough for the nearest people to hear. “Get those set up.”

Tony got it and Peter had never been so grateful. He bustled the tray to the commandeered bricks and set it down, secure again now that Tony was there and reasonable.  _ I won’t let anything happen, _ Tony had said. The risk had been so, so worth it.

It was paying off again. There was an assortment of desserts there, ice creams and cakes and pies, little cups of brightly colored jelly substances, sprinkles and powdered sugar and everything else. Peter sat, waiting eagerly for Tony to take something so he could too.

“I figured we might as well go all in,” Tony said, picking up a cake topped with strawberries and whipped cream. “Let loose and live a little. Do you want-”

Peter grabbed the nearest cup to his hand and popped the spoon straight into his mouth. He had tried for casual but Tony’s expression said he hadn’t quite made it.

“Okay, yeah, blueberry pie. Good choice.”

Peter no longer cared who was watching. The pie was warm and gooey and sweet, crust satisfying crisp.

“Hold up a sec. This is gonna blow your mind.”

Peter’s mind was already blown, but he waited as Tony scooped ice cream from another cup and put it on top.

“Have at it.”

Tony was right. Somehow that was even better, the cold and the warm mixing together. And that was just the first cup.

“Mr Stark,” Peter said, voice hushed at first but rising when he glanced around and found no one had settled anywhere near them. “This is  _ good. _ ”

“Uh, yeah. It’s pie.” Tony searched his own blueberry pie out and took a thoughtful bite. “They were out of apple. We’ll get one delivered.”

“Can we get blueberries? I mean, just blueberries.” Peter stopped himself at licking the empty cup but just barely.

“Yeah, but you’re gonna be severely disappointed if you try.”

Peter liked the entranced look Tony got when Peter tried something new, like Tony could experience the wonder himself just by looking. Or like Peter was that wonder himself, a strange creature he had happened on by chance and couldn’t quite understand.

“Pancakes,” Tony said. “We’ll make blueberry pancakes.”

_ Pancakes.  _ Yes.

“This one next.” Tony nudged a cup. “Trust me.”

Peter knew chocolate, at least, and was happy to oblige.

Tony’s phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and grimaced. “Ah shit. I’m totally grounded.”

That could really only mean on of two things.

“Pepper! Always lovely to-”

“Where  _ are _ you?”

Peter’s eyebrows rose. Tony had put her on speakerphone? Usually Peter only got to hear Tony’s side of a conversation. He jammed another spoonful of chocolate cake in his mouth, trying not to look interested.

“Getting lunch. I can pick something up for you. If you’re hungry. Maybe that Thai place you like? The one with the-”

“Tony, the meeting starts in fifteen minutes!”

Tony put on a regretful look. “Ah, you know, not sure I’m gonna make it in time. Just go ahead without me-”

“How are you not going to make it in time? I dressed you myself this morning!”

Tony had been wearing a suit that morning. Peter hadn’t thought anything of it--it happened sometimes, morning meetings, press releases, whatever else Tony did that got in the way of their routine sometimes.

And what did she mean, dressed him herself? Had she… come over the other night? They hadn’t stayed up as late as they sometimes did. Peter had started to doze and Tony had sent him off to bed. Maybe he should have stayed awake.

“About that. I got hungry and you know I hate walking around in a suit, Pep-”

“You were practically born in a suit, Tony. Don’t even give me that.”

“Well it’s conspicuous.” Tony turned the camera 180 from himself to pan over the crowd behind them. “Unless you wanted all these people to gossip. Job security?”

“Is that  _ Peter? _ ”

Peter froze. Tony looked like he was reconsidering his own actions.

“Did you take your slave out for lunch, Tony?” Pepper demanded, voice incredulous. “Did you cancel a meeting with  _ Nick Fury and Captain America _ to take your slave out to lunch?”

“I didn’t cancel anything. You’re going to do that for me.”

“I’ll do no such thing. Get your ass over here. This meeting has been in the works for a month-”

“And I said no, not that that ever works.” Peter ducked his head down, remembering that first conversation with Happy so long ago. Tony had said no to him, too. “Look, Captain America can handle this, they don’t even need me. I already said everything I needed to say on the subject. I don’t trust the guy, and I don’t want him in my tower.”

“The tower is the most secure place to bring him. You know that.”

“He’s a murderer. He’s insane. We’re not going to change his mind or bring him on our side and I’ve said all this before.”

“Well come to the meeting and say it again.”

“I really don’t like to repeat myself. Look, if they want to discuss how to neutralize the threat, more power to them. But they can do it without me.”

“Tony, if you don’t come to the meeting, I’m going to okay the use of the tower.”

“We both know that’s going to happen anyway. I’m pretty sure this entire meeting was set up specifically to ambush me, actually, and I’d rather not.”

“So what, you’re just going to hide away and overindulge your-”

“Don’t,” Tony warned, voice dropping.

The tone gave Peter pause, even knowing it wasn’t directed at him. Tony had never spoken like that to him, low and dangerous, and Peter was glad for that. He wasn’t sure he could have taken it directed at him.

Tony stood, pressing one hand to Peter’s shoulder as he walked away from their makeshift table, out of hearing. Peter tried not to look like he was watching. Tony could be so animated when he talked and he certainly looked worked up this time, gesturing expansively. Was it about Peter? He knew what Pepper had been about to say, how could he not? But it hardly seemed like something worth arguing over.

“Oh my god, it  _ is _ him.”

Peter felt every muscle pull to a stop in surprise at the sudden voice behind him. A girl and she sounded young.

“I told you!” another girl’s voice said. “Wow. Tony Stark himself. I never thought I’d actually see him in the flesh.”

This was not good. Tony had changed into the casual clothes, hat, and glasses to keep a low profile and this was not conducive to that. Peter debated whether he should tell Tony but it didn’t seem like a good time to interrupt. Tony had stopped gesturing and was talking more calmly now, though he still paced.

“You should go up to him, Linds. You know how he is, and you just got that blowout on your hair.” The first girl’s voice had gone suggestive. “I mean, I can’t or I would totally be all over that.”

Peter chanced a quick glance behind him, where the girls had parked themselves under a nearby tree. They looked early twenties, dressed in tight jeans and flirty tops. The blonde was frowning at the cup in her hand--that had to be Linds. The other was a slim brunette who was eyeing Tony with a ravenous look. Peter whipped back around, fidgeting with his half-empty cup.

“I don’t know… I was reading that he has some girlfriend…”

A girlfriend? When? And how? Peter had never seen him with a woman aside from Pepper. Then again, when  _ did _ he see Tony? In the lab most days, in the morning or the afternoon, then again most evenings for dinner and tv. There was open time in there for meetings and other duties Tony had to attend to, and that meant there was open time for a girlfriend.

“Nah, that article was trash.” Peter scooped pudding into his mouth, no longer paying a whit of attention to Tony across the way, attention focused on the girls. “The girl he was talking to was a Starbucks barista. They cropped out the smock but you could see the edges. Anyway, be serious, like that would really stop him.”

“Well. He does have a nice ass,” Linds said doubtfully.

Peter blinked and truly looked at Tony, still pacing. And, well, yes, he kind of did. She wasn’t wrong.

“I mean if he can lift a wall then think about how he could lift you,” the other girl said.

“That’s in the armor,” Linds laughed. “Oh my god, Sarah, you’re so dumb! He can’t lift a wall normally.”

“Ugh, yeah. Too bad Thor isn’t here.”

Both girls laughed. Peter sipped at a cup of soda, trying not to think about their words but failing miserably. He’d never actually seen Tony lifting anything heavy or even working on large objects, but he had seen the Iron Man armor close up. It couldn’t be light. And what about all the other tech he created?

But did that mean he could lift a person? It didn’t seem all that difficult but Peter had never done it himself, and the super strength gave him sort of an unfair advantage there.

“I bet he’s a good kisser.”

“He has to be, with all that practice.” The girls giggled together. “Seriously, Sarah, be serious. There’s no way he’d go for me. I’m a nobody!”

“Um, so is like, every girl he’s ever been caught with by the tabloids. Girl, you’re gorgeous. Work it! You’re never going to have this chance again.”

She didn’t have a chance. Did she? Peter shifted uneasily, wondering if he should go to Tony and tell him about the girls. Would he even care? He probably got it a lot. They were right, Tony was good looking, and he had power to boot. Girls were probably crawling out of the walls for him.

Peter bit savagely into a brownie, wishing the girls would leave. Tony was busy. Too busy for them. Couldn’t they see he was trying to have a nice day off? What did they think the hat was for?

“Oh my god, he’s coming back. Quick, like, don’t look! Act like we’re talking about something else.”

Tony had hung up and was returning. He looked annoyed until he looked at Peter, and then it cleared away to something a little more sedate.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Witches?”

“ _ Witches? _ What the hell, Sarah?”

“Just shut up! Eat your cake, god. I’m just trying to help.”

Tony’s eyes caught on the girls as he reached Peter, a little furrow between his brows for just a moment, but he cleared that away too and picked up a cup.

“No lab tomorrow,” he said drily. “I’ve got a meeting.”

“Yes, Mr Stark,” Peter said.

Tony’s arms really were pretty well muscled. He probably could lift a person easy. Linds doubted too much.

“What’s the best thing here?” Tony asked, surveying the cups, still seemingly perturbed from the call. “Of the things you tried.”

Peter had managed to chow through about two thirds of his own cups, but he had been sort of distracted. It was hard to remember specific desserts.

“This one,” he finally said, tapping the rim of some some sort of chocolate and peanut butter pastry he had particularly liked. “Sir.”

Tony sighed and slipped the glasses back on, then picked up the cup. “It was too good to last, huh?”

Peter didn’t answer. He didn’t think Tony had been expecting him to anyway.

“Excuse me, Mr Stark? Tony Stark?”

Peter’s spine straightened of its own accord, every muscle tensing. Linds, right behind him, and all of the doubt she had expressed was gone from her voice now. She came around to Tony’s side, not even glancing at Peter as she passed him.

“Hey, yeah, you got me.”

Peter shouldn’t have felt satisfied about the dismissive tone in Tony’s voice but he did. Maybe she would go away and take her friend with her so he and Tony could eat alone again.

“I thought so. My friend said I was crazy.” She tilted her head and smiled then, looking at Tony coyly. “I knew it was you, though. You’re unmistakeable.”

Tony’s movement hitched, just a little, as he sank a spoon into his cup. Peter couldn’t see Tony’s eyes behind the shades but his head tipped a millimeter down then up, looking the girl over. He put on an easy grin and leaned back on one arm against the brick. Peter’s stomach twisted and his mouth went dry.

“Well it’s a nice change from unmanageable,” Tony said. “Though for some reason I don’t think you’d have a problem with that.”

“Managing people is what I do, actually. I think I could handle it.”  _ You _ .

Tony was looking at her as if she was the only thing that existed in the universe at that moment. Maybe she was, for him, with her silky blonde hair and pretty little outfit. Peter dropped his empty dessert cup onto the tray, a couple empties going down with it. Tony’s eyes flicked away from her then, landing on Peter. His flirty smile dropped nearly away and he sat up a little, pushing his weight up with one hand.

But then Linds was sneaking forward, flicking her hair behind her ear as she stepped nearer Tony, almost between his legs where he was lounging on the bricks. “I’m in town for a few days. Here’s my business card. Maybe you could buy me a drink.”

Just like that, Tony’s attention was back on her. “I know just the place. It’s got the best view of the city, a private bar, and a great bartender.”

Peter grabbed another cup and mashed the contents with the spoon, not even hungry, uninterested in another bite but suddenly so frustrated. She was trouble and Tony couldn’t see it. She had put on a new face so fast that Peter could hardly believe it was the same girl.

“Where’s that?” Linds asked, intrigued.

“Stark Tower. My room, specifically.”

He shouldn’t do it, Peter knew that, but it was almost more reflex than anything else. The emotions whirling in him were unbearable, and he could see the heat in their stares, and he just wanted her to leave. Peter’s knee had found its way under the tray and it was the work of only a moment to drop his sampler on the ground and jump to his feet, upending the tray onto Mr Stark’s lap and Linds’ feet.

“Jesus fuck-” Stark said as Linds yelped and jumped away.

Peter was already folding to his knees, half show and half sincere reflex, a sampler cup collapsing beneath one knee. His heart was pounding at his own audacity but he felt not an ounce of real regret as he pressed his forehead to Tony’s knee, head bowed in false apology.

“What-” Tony said, hand landing on Peter’s head.

“Oh my god, what is wrong with him!” Linds’ voice had gone high-pitched and vexed.

Peter rested a hand on Tony’s ankle and squeezed, a reminder. A question. He hoped Tony wasn’t angry or it might not matter. No, he really should not have done that, and yet he was almost exhilarated that he had.

But Tony took the cue. The hand disappeared. Tony stood and Peter adjusted his head to rest against Tony’s thigh instead, hands folding behind him and eyes shut, the picture of perfect obedience. It would look like an accident, and if Tony handled it right-

“I should go,” Tony said. “I’ve got to deal with this at home.”

“Yeah,” Linds said, voice agitated. “Wow, what a shitty slave. You know, there are programs you can enroll them in to stop things like that.”

_ Retraining _ . Peter’s mind caught on the thought and latched on. This would have netted Peter a harsh punishment with any other master, and that was with it having been an accident. If he had done it on purpose… Peter tensed, trying to push the thought from his mind but finding it tenacious. He pressed harder against Tony’s leg, wishing Tony hadn’t taken his hand away, wishing he could see his face.

What if he  _ was _ angry?

“Get up,” Tony said, voice tight, suddenly bustling Peter upright with two hands at his waist. “Up, up, hands forward.”

“I think the class for him is called poise or something, I don’t remember. My uncle has a bunch of slaves and he sends them to those programs all the time. They always come back  _ so _ well behaved.”

Peter felt sick. Tony was prodding him but Peter was rooted to the spot. He deserved a retraining, had since before Tony even got him, and more than just a basic retraining. She was telling Tony about it and now Tony would  _ know _ , he would know retrainings were possible, maybe he would look them up and see just what it was Peter was supposed to be and he would send Peter there, to make him better-

“They work some kind of magic there,” Linds laughed. “I can get the name of the place from my uncle for you. Even a good slave could use a brush up. Let me call him real quick.”

“Look, sorry, but it’s not a good time.”

She had set her hand on Tony’s elbow as she spoke. Tony brushed it away, but Peter’s eyes stayed there, where she had been touching him. 

“ _ Peter _ , let’s go,” Tony said, tapping him on the cheek until Peter blinked at him, focusing. Then Tony dragged him away.

Leaving was a blur. Peter followed where Tony led, blind to where they were going. The hand on his back was gentle. He focused on that, breathing, trying to remember things now and not then.

Tony liked him the way he was. He wouldn’t retrain Peter. He was happy with him. Except… Except when he wasn’t. Except when Peter couldn’t do things how he wanted, or made things worse.

“Here, come on, in the car.”

He hadn’t even realized that was where they were going, but Tony opened the door and Peter slid in gratefully. The door shut behind him and took the world with it. Peter breathed.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said when Tony got in.

“Don’t be.”

“I didn’t-”

“I don’t care.” Tony twisted in his seat and set a warm hand on Peter’s neck, thumb along his jaw, eyes unfathomable. He leaned forward and kissed Peter’s temple, gentle and slow, then leaned their heads together side-to-side. “You don’t need to be sorry.  _ I’m  _ sorry I took you there.”

“I liked it there,” Peter admitted, calming beneath the touch. Tony wasn’t angry; Tony understood. They had made a code and Peter had sort of followed that.

“You weren’t ready..” Tony leaned back and away, drumming both hands on the steering wheel as he stared out the windshield. He shook his head. “I wasn’t ready. I don’t know. Let’s go home.”

It was better once they were there, back to the familiar. They stepped out onto Tony’s floor and Peter could breathe freely again. Tony changed out of his sampler-bathed clothes first--and it was fine, Tony wasn’t angry, he hadn’t even said anything, and Peter could even start to believe it now they were home--then made a beeline to the bar where Peter had already sat to watch Tony prepare their drinks, a habit they had fallen into recently so Tony could show him what he was putting in the drinks, let him taste this and that ingredient as they went.

This time Peter tuned out Tony’s explanations, watching him work but mind far away. He let the familiar movements quiet his thoughts and calm his insides, back to a baseline he hadn’t even realized he’d come to count on. Clean glasses, a jar of cherries, a metal straw. They were all familiar now in a way he wasn’t sure anything ever had been. They weren’t his, not by a long shot, but not… Forbidden. Not a thing he couldn’t have, if he asked. If Tony gave it.

He wanted to go to his knees and press his forehead against Tony again. It wasn’t apology he felt but something warm and welcoming, some deep appreciation. And maybe Tony would put his hand on Peter’s head again and talk to him while Peter absorbed his warmth and his voice and the little things that made him Tony.

Maybe, if things had gone differently, they could have come home and Peter could have curled into Tony’s side. They could have talked about the food they’d tried, and the way that lady in the jewelry store had been so angry as it was closed down for them, and how the day had been nice, the weather fair. Normal, human things to talk about There would be no edge of tension around Tony, as if he was expecting Peter to crack and break apart into so many pieces on the living room floor.

But would Lindsay have been there tonight if things hadn’t gone the way they did? It had sounded like it. It had looked like it. Peter watched Tony’s strong hands and arms as he poured. Would she have sat here too and done the same? Or would Tony have gotten her comfortable on the couch, encouraged her to take off her shoes while he made her something special, like he made Peter something special anytime he wanted?

“Peter? Hey, you in there?”

“Yeah,” Peter said, pulling from his thoughts. “I’m--yes.”

Tony was worried. It was clear on his face and in the way he had been so careful with Peter on their way home, soft touches and small comforts all the way. There was a drink on the bar between them, just slightly closer to Tony, but the other man wasn’t looking at it.

“Is that for me?” Peter asked when it didn’t look like Tony was going to offer it himself.

Tony hesitated. “Maybe we should skip the drinks tonight. I’m kind of wrecked, I don’t know about you. Today was weird.”

It was an excuse. Tony never turned down a drink for being wrecked, not after the Avengers fight and not after a stressful day. This was because of Peter too.

The drink looked good. It had that red tint that meant Tony had put grenadine inside and so far Peter hadn’t disliked anything with grenadine yet. He reached out and ran one finger down the side of the glass, collecting condensation and snaking a clear path through the haze. Tony’s eyes followed the movements, the worry dropping slowly away as Peter turned the glass, making a maze of curls and twists in the condensation as he went.

Peter cradled the glass in his palm, enjoying the chill and Tony’s attention. Tony was watching him and Peter recognized that look now, the way his dark eyes were fast on Peter, unwavering, heavy. He had never quite figured it out before but he had seen the way Tony had considered Linds and he thought, just maybe, there was a little bit of that there now.

Peter’s stomach fluttered. He didn’t want Lindsay here in this place with Tony, receiving that look.

“Can I taste it?” he asked, fingers curling but not quite picking the glass up.

Tony’s eyes shot to Peter’s face, faintly alarmed. “Taste..?”

“Did you make this for me?” Peter clarified.

Understanding dawned. Tony cleared his throat, looking away. “Go for it. It’s all yours.”

Peter took a sip. Tony wasn’t watching, busying himself finishing his own drink, but he was always turned just a little bit in Peter’s direction, always just lightly aware of him. Peter waited, watching, refusing to look away until Tony finally looked again.

“What?” Tony said, caught off guard. “Too strong?”

“It’s good.” Peter licked his lips and something warm began to blossom in his stomach at the way Tony noticed.

He didn’t know how he had been so oblivious before. No one else had been subtle about it in the past, having no reason to hide their desires. It had been inconsequential to them, but not to Tony. Tony hid it like a well kept secret but his eyes gave him away. If it had been anyone else Peter would have been glad for that secret to have stayed just as it was, to never have known.

Now he was thankful for the wool having lifted, because if Tony wanted him then maybe no one else ever needed to come. No Lindsays at the bar, on the couch, in Tony’s bed. Just Peter here, with Tony, where he belonged.

Tony looked between the drink and Peter. He looked like he wanted to take it away, like he was sensing something amiss and wasn’t sure the cause. Peter took another drink and turned to look at the tv, trying to will his heart to beat a little slower. His cheeks were warm and so was every drop of blood in his veins, but it didn’t hurt. It was a good warmth like fire bringing him alive, not burning him out.

“Can we watch a movie?” Peter asked. “That one. You know, the old one in space.”

“The old one… In space.” Tony came around the bar with his own drink and headed to the couch. Peter hopped to his feet and followed. “You’ve gotta give me more than that.”

“With the, um, hairy guy.”

“Do you mean  _ Star Wars _ ?” Tony asked, incredulous. “Please tell me you did not just call Star Wars the ‘old one in space’ to my face.”

“It’s not old?”

“No! Well, at this point, yes, but-” Tony dropped onto the couch with a groan. A thought tickled Peter’s brain. “You didn’t even watch it last time. You fell asleep.”

It had been boring, but Peter didn’t dare say that. “I wanted to see the ending.”

“You have no idea what you just asked for,” Tony said, turning on the tv and starting his search.

Peter set his glass on the coffee table and sat on the floor between Tony’s feet, happy when Tony automatically shifted to press one leg against his side. Peter normally curled up on the couch with Tony but he sat here sometimes when he didn’t want to lay down or Tony couldn’t get comfortable. The only downside was that Tony couldn’t reach him down there to pet his hair as they had gotten used to, but tonight that was to plan.

The movie started. Tony and Peter settled back into their respective places, Peter comfortably cradled on both sides by Tony’s legs. He did let himself enjoy it for a while, relaxing into Tony’s warmth and the safety of being home. He hadn’t realized how comfortable he had become here with Tony until that feeling was gone.

Peter let some time pass, Tony relaxing into the cushions, foot nudging under Peter’s thigh and wedging comfortably there. Peter shifted just a little. Tony’s left leg had been supporting most of his weight and Peter bore into that a little more now, easing back so more of his back was supported by leg than couch. Little by little he moved until his side was parallel with the couch, legs crooked over Tony’s right foot.

He could see Tony glancing at him occasionally, his movements not unnoticed. That was okay. Peter was ready to be noticed now. He turned his head and pressed his cheek to the inside of Tony’s knee, waiting until Tony looked down at him, eyes locking, before he gently nuzzled there. He waited with bated breath, watching Tony’s eyes grow dark and dubious.

“Peter,” Tony said, voice even. “What are you doing.”

“Nothing,” Peter said, turning his head a little more and letting his lips brush over the soft fabric of Tony’s pajama pants at the knee. He let his lips travel up and inward a little to the sensitive spot just above the inside knee, puffing hot breaths and moving his lips but not kissing, not quite. The flame inside him burned brighter and Peter wondered how far it could go.

“That’s a whole lot of nothing.” Tony’s chest was rising and falling a little faster now. He didn’t move, but his eyes narrowed. “You  _ were _ jealous.”

Jealous. Peter turned the word over in his head, thinking as he rubbed his cheek against Tony. Maybe that was accurate. Peter had never been jealous like that before. He hadn’t liked it.

“I wasn’t sure,” Tony said, eyes flicking with thought even as he took in every slight move Peter made. “I thought maybe you just didn’t want her there because it meant you couldn’t talk.”

“I didn’t like her,” Peter said. “Around you. Is that jealousy?”

“Yeah, sure as hell sounds like it to me.”

Tony jerked a little as Peter pressed a kiss to the inside of his knee this time. Encouraged, Peter came all the way around, knees against the couch, and placed a hand on the inside of each knee. 

“Mr Stark. I can help you.” 

He pushed lightly with each hand and Tony’s legs began to widen before he seemed to realize what he was doing and stopped himself. Peter didn’t hide his moue of disappointment.

“Peter. You don’t need to do anything for me.” Tony’s voice was firm but his eyes had gotten so, so dark. They gave him and his wants away. It thrilled inside Peter.

“I want to,” he said, trying to push again, but Tony’s legs didn’t budge. “Please. I want to make you happy.”

Tony sat up then and Peter’s heart jumped, expectant, but in the next moment Tony was placing a hand at his shoulder and pushing him back. Away. “Peter. No.”

“Please,” Peter said, leaning back on his palms and trying to ignore the crush of defeat inside him. Why had he thought this would work? Tony wanted pretty blonde girls, not Peter. “Don’t send me away. Let me.”

“We can’t do this.”

“Why?” Peter asked, voice breaking on the word. “You’ll like it. I promise, you will. I’ll give you anything you want.”

“I believe you.” Tony said simply. He lifted his right leg over Peter, leaving Peter bare to the open room, and stood. “And that’s why we can’t.”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t understand. I thought-” Peter rubbed a hand between his brows, confused, hurt. Jealous? “I thought you wanted me. I thought you would like it.”

“Come on, stand up.”

Tony extended a hand down. Peter took it reluctantly. He didn’t want to be here anymore, with Tony looking at him. Denying him. “Mr Stark-”

“Another reason why we can’t.”

“I don’t understand,” Peter admitted. He wasn’t warm any longer.

“I know.” 

Tony cupped his jaw with one broad palm, keeping Peter’s head up as his dark eyes roved. They always saw everything in Peter, ferreting out the pieces of him that he had hidden away. Did they find him lacking now? Maybe, if he looked strong enough, Tony would change his mind. Maybe he would find a piece of Peter that would satisfy him.

“I don’t either,” Tony finally said. “But I’ve made enough hasty mistakes in my life to know that this would just be another one.”

Something in him twisted and ached. Of course Tony wouldn’t want him now; he had never wanted Peter in the first place. Peter had always been a mistake, an unfortunate circumstance in his life. That hadn’t changed.

“Don’t look like that,” Tony murmured. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t sound any happier than Peter felt. Once that would have set off fear inside Peter but now it just joined the ache in his own chest and amplified it. If Tony would only let him, Peter knew he could make that sound in his voice disappear for a little while at least.

Peter turned his head down and away, hiding his expression and losing the warmth of Tony’s hand against his jaw in the process. “I should go to my room.”  _ I want to go to my room _ .

Tony’s fallen hand hovered near him then dropped. “Okay. We won’t work in the lab tomorrow. I have that meeting.”

With the Avengers. Right. Peter took a step back, nodding his assent.

“I’ll make pancakes for dinner,” Tony said. “Blueberry. If you want.”

Peter nodded. Took another step back. “May I go?”

“Whenever you want.”

Peter didn’t wait. He turned on his heel and fled.


	8. Chapter 8

Peter sat curled into the arm of the couch, which he had pushed back to be in view of the elevator doors so he could more accurately stalk it for any small sign of arrival. The tv played in the background but Peter had hardly glanced at it, his attention glued to the only entrance and exit to his quarters. It was noon and Stark hadn’t called him in. Stark hadn’t called him in the day before either.

He had been glad to stay hidden in his room that first day, still stinging from Tony’s rejection and unsure where to go from there. But as the day had worn on and dinner had passed, Peter had begun to wonder. And fear.

Maybe it had been too much. Tony was disgusted. Tony was annoyed. Maybe Tony had seen what Peter was truly worth and been disappointed. He would renew the listing to sell Peter, drop the price, and never even bother to tell him in person before sending him away.

But Tony had said they would have pancakes. Tony had apologized and touched his face. Why would he do that if he was so disappointed?

Maybe something else had happened. There could have been another battle. No one would have bothered to tell Peter if that happened and there was no guarantee that Tony would come for him afterward. He had probably only done that to make sure Peter hadn’t escaped from the open window or gotten drunk all on his own. 

There were too many maybes and Peter didn’t know what to think.

Well. There was one way to find out...

Peter rolled onto his back, eyes on the ceiling. “JARVIS?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is Mr Stark home?”

“Yes, sir.”

Peter toyed with the throw pillow on his chest. “Is he in the lab?” Had he moved on without Peter? Peter was learning, he was, but maybe it wasn’t fast enough.

“Mr Stark has been working since 3pm last evening.”

That was a strange response. JARVIS generally responded with the exact answer to the question Peter asked, no more and no less. Sometimes, when JARVIS interacted with Stark himself, he did get the feeling that JARVIS might not be so simple a robot but those moments were brief.

Should he ask for more? Peter glanced at the television, playing something he hadn’t paid a whit of attention to. He wasn’t sure he could stand not knowing for much longer. “JARVIS, can you take me downstairs?”

“Certainly, sir.”

The elevator dinged. Peter jolted upright and turned around, finding the door standing wide open. That had been easier than he expected. Much, much easier. He had thought JARVIS would say no or consult Mr Stark himself, not just… agree.

He wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Peter turned off the tv and clambered into the elevator, impatiently waiting for JARVIS to send him down, as usual. Would Stark be angry to see him, arriving unbidden? Or maybe he would be happy that Peter was eager to work. Maybe Peter would come at just the right time, as Tony was struggling to hold something in place, and he would be relieved when Peter walked in. He would say that Peter had arrived just in time, that he’d needed another set of hands, that Peter was so  _ helpful _ .

The elevator opened into shadow. Peter stared. This wasn’t the right place. The doors had revealed a bare concrete hallway, not the lab.

“JARVIS?” Peter leaned out of the elevator and peered down the hall. There was a soft wash of light about 100 yards down. “This isn’t the lab?”

“Sir is in the workshop today. Please proceed down the hallway.”

Peter stepped out. A light snicked on overhead, illuminating the area immediately outside the elevator, and then cascaded down the hallway, one light fixture after another coming alive. Nothing else moved. No one appeared.

“Please proceed,” JARVIS repeated.

Peter walked down the concrete hallway, certain this was not a good idea. Stark had never allowed him anywhere but his own quarters and the lab. He wasn’t even sure why he had asked now--he didn’t have any right to work in the lab every day, and there was plenty he could do in his quarters like… sleep. Or clean. Or pretend to watch television.

There was a set of double doors ahead on his right but he didn’t feel ready to brave it. Peter turned to the wall a couple feet away, leaning on it with two hands and resting his forehead on the concrete. Not a good idea. So not a good idea. He should turn back now.

The door opened, both panels sliding into the wall.

“Peter has arrived, sir.”

“What?” Stark’s voice.

Oh god. Peter straightened hurriedly and presented himself in the doorway, not yet looking at Stark himself. “Sir.”

“JARVIS, not cool,” Tony said darkly. He sounded different, tired, and not pleased.

So he wasn’t welcome, then. Why would JARVIS bring him here? It was obviously the place Tony worked on his Iron Man armor, judging by the armor pieces hanging from the ceiling and adorning the tables, and of course Tony wouldn’t trust Peter around them. There were other things in the room as well--large machinery and a small mechanical crane of some sort, a station with a hologram projected above it, and various things he didn’t recognize.

In the middle of it all was Stark, leaning on one elbow with a screwdriver in hand, a metal leg on the table before him. Peter had never seen him so wan and red eyed. How long had he been working in here? Peter calculated it, frowning. Over 20 hours if JARVIS was correct, and he always was.

“You missed dinner,” Peter said by way of explanation, shifting on his feet.

“I missed more than that.” Tony grabbed a glass bottle of amber liquid and took a swig straight from the top. There was only a quarter of a bottle left.

He could see it now, the way that Tony was sitting just a little too straight, putting real effort into it. His eyes were just a little unfocused, red around the rims. It wasn’t how tired he was that Peter heard in his voice, or not completely. Tony was drunk.

“Mr Stark?” he said, hesitantly making his way forward, picking around fallen components to Tony’s side. The place was a disaster, and so was Tony. “I think maybe you should go to bed.”

Tony looked even worse up close, skin nearly transparent with dark smudges under his eyes. He smelled strongly of whiskey. Peter couldn’t help stepping back as the scent hit him, eyes darting to the bottle to confirm, yes, whiskey. Tony followed his glance, then stood and grabbed the bottle. Peter expected him to take another swig, power of suggestion and all, but instead Tony capped it and headed away, one hand trailing along the tabletop for balance and upending tools and materials as he went.

“No rest for the wicked, Peter,” Tony said, and laughed like he’d told a good joke. It was an abrasive sound, like the laugh was being scraped from the back of his throat.

“JARVIS says you’ve been in here a long time,” Peter said, changing tacks and only just realizing why JARVIS had responded as he had. He had wanted Peter to come, to intervene where a voice in the walls could not.

Tony had crouched down and stashed the whiskey away somewhere on a shelf, and that was good. It was progress. Maybe bedtime was next.

Except when Tony stood, there was a new bottle in his hand. This one was full. He nearly smacked it into the table as he inspected the label.

It was satisfactory, apparently. Peter followed as Tony made his unsteady way to a different table, helpless to do anything about it. It wasn’t like he could snatch the bottle from his fingers, could he?

“Mr Stark. You look tired.”

“You want some?” Tony asked, sitting heavily on a chair and uncapping the new bottle. “S’rum.”

Peter watched Tony take a swig, a sinking feeling in his chest.

“Shit rum,” Tony said with a grimace, taking another gulp, then set the bottle heavily on the table top. “But rum.”

Tony rummaged under papers for a moment and pulled out an empty glass, something dark ringed dry along the bottom. He set it triumphantly in front of Peter.

It was an opportunity. Peter gathered his courage and inched forward, plucking the bottle off the table and backing right up again.

Tony brightened. “Yeah, hey, who needs glasses, right? Bottle is fine. Misery loves company.”

“Are you miserable?” Peter asked, trying to distract him as he tucked the bottle under one arm. The bright hope left Tony’s face, frowning now as he watched Peter.

“If you’re not going to drink, then g’ve it back,” Tony said, ignoring him.

“I don’t think you should have any more,” Peter said apologetically, taking another step away.

Tony stood. Peter tried not to cringe away. This was  _ Tony _ , even drunk, and Tony wouldn’t hurt him. Tony gave him soda and delicious foods, and did things he didn’t want to just to keep Peter safe. Nevermind that Peter had never so flagrantly disregarded an order before and Tony was… not Tony at the moment.

“My rum, my rules,” Tony said. “Give it.”

Tony was focused on the bottle and only the bottle. He took a step forward, reaching, and his hip bumped against the table. Tony careened, losing balance. The world slowed to a crawl, one moment stretching away before Peter’s eyes as he tracked what was coming, reacting on instinct more than anything else.

Peter didn’t even think, just reached out and caught Tony around the waist. It wasn’t hard with his super strength but he had gone off balance too in his lunge forward and the bottle in his hand didn’t allow him to get very good purchase on Tony, who was certainly not helping the situation. They were going to go down together.

Peter flailed out with his left hand as far as he could and smacked it down. It hit the flat top of the table and caught there, holding well enough for Peter to slow their fall with a foot against a table leg before they could hit the ground.

“The fuck,” Tony said, feet out from under him where he hung in Peter’s grasp, chin sharp against Peter’s clavicle.

Peter brought them both upright, trying to ignore the quaking of his insides. He couldn’t remember the last time he had used his powers, not for anything he had any control over.

“That’s amazing,” Tony said, eyes on Peter’s hand as he disengaged from the table top. He had never seen a demonstration and the intrigue was clear on his face. Peter looked away. “How’s that work?”

“I’m not entirely sure, Mr Stark,” Peter said, voice faint. No one had ever bothered to tell him. “It should be in my file.”

“I’m not reading your file,” Tony said, and used Peter’s surprise as a chance to grab the bottle back. “What? I threw it away. Digital copies on lock down.”

Tony flopped into the nearest chair and cracked open the rum, giving Peter a reproachful look as he took another long drink. When he came up for air there was a noticeable level drop in the bottle.

“Knew you could climb things,” Tony said, expression going thoughtful, considering. “Guess I figured it’d come with more property damage.”

Peter shook his head, unable to find any words, uncomfortable with the direction this was going. Tony was looking at him with interest but the entirely wrong sort of interest. It was needles beneath his skin. He looked around, casting for anything to distract away from the subject. It wasn’t hard--the workshop was a wonder of things Peter wanted to know more about when he looked.

Peter picked up the first thing at hand, a swatch of thick blue material that felt somewhere between plastic and metal. “Is this for your armor?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Tony’s face twisted into something hard and bitter as he looked at it. “No. That’s a Cap special.”

Tony set aside the bottle and took the material, and that was some sort of win anyway. He turned it over in his hands, fingers touching over the pebbled surface, before tossing it away across the table. Peter caught a skittering screwdriver before it hit the ground, setting it carefully back on the table and stepping smoothly into Tony’s space, between him and the table.

“Half the stuff in here is for him,” Tony continued. “I’ve spent as much time bulletproofing and fireproofing and, and fucking  _ everything-proofing _ his uniform as I have my own armor.”

Tony reached out, across to the far side of the table, and snatched up a strip of leather studded with rivets, nearly tipping his chair in the process. Peter set a hand on his knee, steadying Tony with a touch. He certainly didn’t  _ seem  _ inclined to go peacefully to bed.

“Does this look like something a-” Tony stumbled on his words, shaking the leather in Peter’s direction as he searched for words, face creased with frustration and fatigue.

“It looks good,” Peter offered, helpless. Something had happened. He was missing something and he didn’t know what, but he didn’t like it. “Very, uh, leather-y.” Okay, yeah, not helpful. “Sturdy.”

Tony didn’t seem to be listening anyway. He tossed the leather to the floor, not even bothering for the table this time. Peter kicked the strip off his foot and stepped in closer, itching to do something, anything. Tony’s hand grasped around as he began to speak again.

“Does any of this,” he said, turning his gaze as his hand came up empty and zeroing in on the bottle again, “look like something a self-absorbed, materialistic,  _ predatory _ -”

He reached and Peter blocked, cutting Tony off mid sentence, stepping in under his lifted arm and fitting himself securely against Tony’s side. The hand Peter had placed on his leg slid around his waist instead. Tony wasn’t talking anymore. That was good, because Peter was done. That had sounded a little bit too much like Tony insulting himself and Peter couldn’t.

“It’s time for bed,” Peter said and lifted Tony easily to his feet.

“Oh.” Tony leaned heavily into him. “Is it now.”

“Past time,” Peter said, mapping out the best path back to the elevator. How long had Tony been drunk down here? Alone and trashing the place, apparently.

He didn’t quite trust that Tony could make it on his own now. The lab was in disarray and he had seen the way Tony got around already. It wasn’t like carrying his weight would be a difficulty, so Peter hiked Tony up more securely and propelled him forward. Tony grabbed a piece of leather as they passed and tossed it to the ground.

“What?” he asked, a petulant challenge in his voice. “It’s my workshop. I’ll throw things if I want.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t,” Peter said, steering them so Tony was further from the things they passed.

“You’re very judge-y,” Tony continued. “Has anyone ever told you that before?”

Peter was pretty sure “judge-y” was not in the list of descriptors any slave was supposed to have. He would be more worried about that if he wasn’t also pretty sure that Tony was so drunk that there was no way he could accurately parse Peter’s facial expression.

“I’m not judging you, Mr Stark,” Peter said, relieved when the double doors opened as they approached. He hadn’t actually been sure how to trigger them. Maybe that was how they always opened or maybe it was JARVIS. That was a mystery for another time.

“That makes one of you,” Tony muttered. “Lemme go. I can walk.”

“Someone judged you?”

Was that why he was upset? Peter frowned. He hadn’t thought of Tony as someone sensitive to that sort of thing. In fact, Tony had made fun of tabloids and news segments about him on the regular. He was unflappable.

“Who  _ doesn’t  _ judge me? It’s a national pastime. And I still don’t see you letting me go.”

Peter wasn’t so sure that was a good idea but if Tony was going to insist, well, there wasn’t a whole lot he could do. He extracted himself, unwinding limbs and stepping back cautiously. Tony swayed but didn’t miss a beat, continuing down the hallway on his own, leaving Peter scurrying to catch up again. At least it wasn’t back the way they had come. He could be grateful for small miracles.

“Too rich. Too selfish.” Tony was sort of ponging back and forth from one wall to the next as he moved down the hallway, never quite touching the wall itself, veering away as he drew too close to either side. “Too arrogant. Too righteous.”

It was insults again. Peter padded close behind Tony, scowling. “None of that’s true.”

“Almost all of it is,” Tony said, casual as anything. He didn’t even look upset anymore despite the words coming out of him.

They were just a few paces from the elevator now, the door standing open and ready. Tony stumbled in, resting both hands on the handrail behind his back and leaning that way, but ending up tilting sideways toward the sidewall. Peter tucked himself into the open space and wrapped an arm around Tony’s waist again. Tony hummed, head lolling against Peter’s.

“Where we going?” Tony asked after a silent moment.

Right. Floors. “Um. Your room. JARVIS? Can you take us there?”

“Assuredly, sir.”

The elevator began to move, a quiet rumble beneath their feet. Peter dug his fingers into Tony’s hip as the man swayed again, seeming liable to tip forward. He was well and properly trashed. How he had managed to keep on in the workshop in that state was a mystery to Peter, but he had certainly seemed to actually be doing something when Peter had arrived.

“M’not even tired,” Tony complained, though everything about his posture belied that. “Do I look like someone who needs sleep?”

“Yes,” Peter said honestly.

“I don’t. There’s this magical concoction called coffee. Combine it with alcohol and you get a real party going.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Peter said, though it did explain how Tony was still cognizant and moving.

“And you would know?” Tony asked archly.

Well, no, maybe that was true. He wasn’t even sure why he had said that. Peter had never had coffee, though some of the sodas Tony had fed him had been caffeinated. Was that the same though? The way people talked about coffee, Peter was pretty sure it wasn’t. Tony hadn’t needed his opinion and especially not when that opinion was obviously wrong.

The elevator came to a stop. The door opened. Peter helped Tony push away from the elevator wall and guided him forward. Maybe he could just drop Tony off and scram before he made himself look even dumber. This was exactly why slaves shouldn’t talk and the fact he had forgotten that was troubling.

Maybe he  _ should _ be put through retraining.

“Hey,” Tony said, stumbling as Peter guided him forward. 

No, not stumbling--Tony was digging his heels in and leaning back, trying to bring them to a stop like a stubborn horse. It was nothing pitted against Peter’s strength but he obeyed the pull regardless.

“I shouldn’t’ve said that. I didn’t mean it, just, y’know, osmosis. And forgetting my audience ‘gain.”

“I  _ don’t  _ know coffee,” Peter said.

“Still a dick thing to say.”

There didn’t seem to be a real reason for stopping so Peter nudged Tony forward until they were moving again. The sooner he got Tony to sleep, the better.

“You know a lot of stuff,” Tony continued, gesturing vaguely. “Put things together. Keep things from falling apart. Wrangling me, which, I mean, that’s not for the faint of heart.”

“It’s not that hard,” Peter offered, leaning hard to the side as Tony’s head nearly clipped the door frame. “Usually.”

“You’re right though,” Tony said, extracting himself clumsily from Peter’s grip after they had cleared the door, wincing as the lights turned on. “Doesn’t work like that. The coffee thing.”

“It doesn’t?” Peter didn’t step away in case Tony went down but a little independence seemed okay.

“Nah.” Tony threw his shirt on the floor and began freeing himself of his left shoe, using the toes of his right foot to push at the heel. “Most people’d be-” Tony grunted as his toes slipped, catching himself with effort. “Most people’d be down hours ago. I’m just special.”

“Do you need help?”

“No.” Tony struggled with the left shoe for a moment more before giving up. He wobbled to the floor and began prying at the shoe with his hands instead, holding it aloft as he succeeded. “See.”

“Good job?” Peter said.

“JARVIS, have some mercy and cut the lights, huh?” Tony began prying at the second shoe. “My headache will thank you.”

“Yes, sir.” The lights went out. Peter could discern the outline of Tony moving in the dark but little else.

The second shoe came off and joined the first, judging by the thunk. He could just make out Tony’s shadow working at the hem of his shirt now. Peter stepped back, not quite sure if it was appropriate to be so close. Not without invitation, in the dark.

As the shirt came off, though, there  _ was _ light. Peter could make out Tony’s face in the blue cast. It painted in gradient down the planes of his stomach, smoothing down his body and diffusing outward into the dark, a soft touch of blue across their surroundings. The room was foreign but this Peter knew. He had glimpsed it as a dim press of light through Tony’s shirt in the evenings, an assurance, a familiarity.

Tony looked at him then, barefoot and bare chested, the arc reactor the only illumination in the room, and Peter’s thoughts went still. There was something otherworldly and beautiful about it. About him.

“You’re leaving?” Tony asked, mild now like the fight had gone out of him with the lights.

“No,” Peter said. “Just… waiting for you.”

“You always wait for me,” Tony complained. “You shouldn’t.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

“Whatever you want. Anything you want.”

Tony was shifting around to his knees, movements clumsy and unbalanced. It was almost painful to watch him struggle with something so simple when Peter had seen him work magic in the lab. Tony didn’t seem perturbed in the least, concentrating on placing his hands where he needed them, like it was nothing out of the ordinary to be so drunk he could hardly get around. Maybe it wasn’t. Outside of the lab and their evenings watching tv, what did Peter know about the things Tony did? 

“I want you to go to sleep,” he said firmly, and if Tony said he shouldn’t wait then Peter wouldn’t wait.

He padded forward, stopping just before Tony, too little too late. Tony had made it to his knees on his own and was pushing both hands on the carpet until he was upright, messy head of hair even with Peter’s navel. He turned his face up to Peter then, eyes dark, quiet at Peter’s feet with a look more open and vulnerable than Peter had ever seen him. There was no submission in those eyes but Tony was kneeling at his feet and it was Tony waiting this time, watching Peter with unassuming expectation.

Peter felt dizzy with the perspective. He was looming over Tony in the dark, staring down at his face, and Peter was close enough that he could reach out and pet Tony’s hair if he wanted. It was all wrong. That was where Peter should be, where he belonged, unequivocally, and seeing Tony like that made something inside him flip and twist, curling in on itself like a dying animal. He wanted to draw Tony up to his feet, to save him from that place, but he couldn’t move, could hardly even breathe.

“Maybe I should’ve stopped a while back,” Tony said. Peter’s brain spun, trying to find the context behind the words, and it wasn’t until Tony sighed miserably and leaned his head forward against Peter’s hip that he realized that Tony must have meant the alcohol.

“Yeah.” Peter’s voice was dry and hoarse, but Tony didn’t seem to notice. He hummed appreciation when Peter touched the side of his head. This was better, somehow, Tony’s face out of sight, the cool light of the arc reactor blocked so he almost couldn’t see the position they were in. “I tried to tell you.”

“That’s a very polite I told you so.” Tony began to pitch just slightly to the side. Peter tucked his hand against the man’s neck, holding him up and in place. “S’it your first one?”

“I guess so,” Peter said. “No one ever let me tell them so before.”

Of course it couldn’t last. Tony stirred and lifted his head, looking blearily up at Peter, blue glow revealing his kneeling form once more. Peter had to place both hands on Tony’s shoulders to keep him from tipping over.

“You look different from down here,” Tony mused.

“Blue?” Peter asked, hopeful.

“Bigger.” Tony frowned at him. “Stronger.”

Peter shook his head, trying to back up a step and break the situation, but Tony reached out and wrapped both arms around his waist. There was a mulish glint in his eyes that Peter wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before. Peter shifted but stayed where he was.

“Sorry. M’done. Bedtime.”

Tony began to struggle to his feet. Relief poured through Peter like a cool stream and he took the opportunity to yank Tony up himself, catching him as he stumbled, just glad to be level with the man again. Tony lolled forward against him then started a graceless stumble backward, toward the bed, both arms still around Peter’s waist and dragging him with. Peter kept them both upright until the backs of Tony’s thighs hit the high mattress and he sat, arms dropping away to grasp the covers.

“Almost there,” Peter encouraged, climbing on his knees beside Tony to push and prod him back, back, until Tony was at least far enough up the bed that his feet wouldn’t hang over. He grabbed one of the pillows and pulled it down closer to them, fluffing it with two hands before setting it where Tony’s head would hit. “There. Lay down.”

“Sec,” Tony said, fumbling in his pocket and pulling out his phone.

Not exactly what Peter had expected. Tony began tapping away immediately, eyes not-quite focusing on the screen but seemingly seeing well enough to manage. He was taking care not to fumble now, movements slow and measured--nothing like the ramshackle stagger to the bedroom and disbanding of shoes. This was how he must have worked in the lab before Peter had arrived to bring him to bed, methodical and so aware of his own fractured limits. He took so little care for himself sometimes but he knew what he had to do for his projects and he always took the time to do it.

The realization slotted into place, then. Tony had run rough shod with Peter at first, hadn’t quite known how to handle Peter or what to do. He had learned, though, had wheedled out the things that made him tick and digested the information until he had mastered the study of Peter. He was another project, another thing to be learned and improved and finished, and what would happen then?

“Shit,” Tony said, squinting at the screen. “Think I just emailed the wrong exec.”

“What?” Peter snatched the phone away. “Why are you emailing people?”

“Forgot earlier.” Tony gave a heavy blink, leaning sideways into Peter again, one arm draping around his waist. “S’fine. Pepper’ll get it.”

“She will,” Peter agreed, though he knew no such thing. Even Pepper couldn’t un-send an email. Maybe Tony could if he was sober, but that wouldn’t be for hours still.

“Least she doesn’t scold me,” Tony continued, speaking into the side of his neck.

Pepper most certainly did scold Tony. Peter had heard it. He said nothing.

“You don’t scold me.”

Peter thought, guiltily, that that might not be entirely true either.

“Do you know,” Tony said, other arm winding around Peter’s waist as well, engulfing him, “what it’s like to have Captain fucking America dress you down? And not in the good way.”

“No?” Peter said. “I mean. I’ve never met him.”

“S’not fun.” Tony pulled back to look at Peter, face set and serious but eyes thick with upset. “He’s a real asshole sometimes. Steve fucking Rogers.”

“I’m sorry.” Peter tucked Tony back against him, unable to bear the emotion in his eyes. Was this why he had been drinking? Or was it why he was working, and the drinking came with the working? Maybe it was the reverse, the working came with the drinking. All the time he had spent with Tony and Peter still hadn’t quite figured him out. “Why was he mad?”

“Why  _ isn’t  _ he mad?” Tony muttered. 

He stirred against Peter, leaning more heavily against him and somehow jabbing a sharp elbow into his thigh. Peter turned and guided Tony to lay on the bed, not intending to go down with him but finding Tony’s arms around him surprisngly insistent. He settled carefully against Tony’s side, draping one hand over his naked waist after a threadbare moment of indecision. 

“Can never do anything right in his eyes. What does he expect me to do with you? Release you into the forest?” Tony didn’t seem to notice Peter tensing beside him, fingers pausing where they had been stroking the soft skin on his side. He couldn’t have heard that right. “Just leave you in the tower forever? Rapunzel Rapunzel, let down your hair?”

“Mr Stark,” Peter choked out. Had they argued about him? Captain America was mad about Peter? It didn’t make any sense, and Tony was upset, and Captain America had done it. “What does this-”

“And stop calling me that,” Tony said crankily. “And start the- that hand thing. Whatever you were doing. Felt nice.”

Tony was fading, he realized. He wasn’t going to really hear a word Peter said and he almost surely didn’t know what he was saying himself. It didn’t seem like he was going to be letting go anytime soon either, and it didn’t really seem worth the fight. Peter smoothed his hand down Tony’s side and curled into him, resting his head on Tony’s shoulder after a cautious moment. Tony rumbled out an incomprehensible word, leaned his head against the top of Peter’s, and sighed. His breathing was already going slow and even, muscles loose and limbs askew.

Peter could stay here for just a little while. Tony would let go at some point and Peter could sneak away, back to his own room and his own bed, and… And Tony would wake up alone. And Peter would wake up alone. And maybe it was okay, just this once, to fall asleep here. It wasn’t so different from the couch and Tony had seemed so needy tonight. It was the right thing to do, really. Tony had practically asked.

They hadn’t even made it under the blankets, but there was a throw down by their feet. Peter stretched his leg down as far as he could and thanked the stars for his ability when he could pull the blanket up with one foot. The blanket was soft against his face, a heavy drape across their bodies as Peter tucked it around them and pressed his head back where it had been, between Tony’s chin and shoulder. Yes, sleeping here was sounding perfect, and someone needed to keep an eye on Tony anyway.

If he was wrong then he would find out and be better. Starting tomorrow.

Peter breathed out and shut his eyes, trying to push all his thoughts away until morning, the anger and the fear and the hurt he held just for Tony.

\----

Peter was torn from sleep by noise, sharp movement dislodging him from the place he had been curled up, and the abrupt loss of warmth. He jerked awake, sitting up with his heart pounding and his mind reeling. He was somewhere he shouldn’t be. He was supposed to be doing something? He couldn’t remember, and the room was strange, and he needed to do the right thing immediately but they had given him too much anesthetic or something-

“Shit. Fuck!”

Peter’s head jerked to the source of the noise even as he spilled from the bed to his feet. Tony was already turning toward him from where he had been leaning with both hands against the wall, which… wasn’t a wall. It was a window behind which the city dropped away into the distance, the glass wide and rounded. It  _ had  _ been a wall before but it definitely wasn’t now.

The events of the day before were coming back and Peter thought he would have noticed if the wall was actually a window, so maybe Tony had moved him as he slept. Peter was pretty sure he would have woken up, though, and the bed was the same, and the same blanket he’d covered them with was lying half off the bed and draping onto the floor. There were Tony’s shoes and socks discarded on the floor, and his shirt flung off to the side.

“You’re dressed,” Tony said, surprise in his voice.

“Your wall is a window,” Peter countered and he was pretty sure he just sounded confused.

“Jarvis, drop the shades.”

In true Stark fashion, the shades weren’t physical shades at all but instead a slow roll of digital black overtaking the view bit by bit until nothing of the outside world showed through. The overhead lighting was on. The arc reactor was dim in the morning light.

Tony was looking at him, from the shoes still on his feet to the wrinkles on his shirt. “Nothing happened last night.”

“You don’t remember?”

Tony frowned and rubbed at his chest, fingers tapping absently on the arc reactor as if to test its stability. “Not exactly.”

It shouldn’t have been a surprise but it was. Tony had been so… clingy, and Peter had liked it, so of course Tony wouldn’t remember any of it now. He hadn’t been thinking straight and now he regretted it. Apparently he would have regretted it more if there had been anything else, if he had touched Peter or if Peter had touched him, but he had already said as much that night on the couch.  _ That  _ wasn’t a surprise but it still hurt.

“Sir, Ms Potts is attempting to reach you.”

Tony’s troubled expression cleared. He grabbed his phone and turned away from Peter, not even glancing at the screen as he raised it to his ear. “Pep! I’m awake. I’m getting ready as we speak.”

He was gathering his shoes as he listened, then crossing the room to throw open his closet doors. Peter wasn’t sure if he should stay or go. The best bet seemed to wait for Tony to get off the phone and finish their conversation, since he hadn’t been dismissed--not that Tony usually did that anyway.

“Of course I’ll be there. You think I trust him in the tower alone?” 

Tony was shedding last night’s pants as he spoke, disappearing somewhere in the depths of the closet as he dropped them to the floor. Peter stayed where he was, resisting the urge to gather the discarded clothing and pack it all away. Tony had a maid for that. He had been very clear. Peter couldn’t help that he was best suited to channeling nervous energy into cleaning and he definitely couldn’t help that Tony apparently had never cleaned up after himself in his life, but he could keep himself from directly disobeying this time.

Tony soon emerged from the closet in a pair of slacks and an unbuttoned dress shirt, jacket slung over one shoulder and a pair of sneakers hanging by the laces from one hand. Peter straightened up and took a step forward, wanting to stop Tony by his name, apologize. He could say that it was an accident, that he’d gotten too sleepy and fallen asleep. He hadn’t done it on purpose.

But Tony didn’t even glance Peter’s way as he headed out the door. “Christ, please tell me they’re going to take the katanas away at the very least,” he said, aggrieved, and was gone.

Peter curled his arms around his waist, wondering if he should follow. Tony hadn’t even had the time to look at him so it didn’t seem like a safe bet that he would welcome Peter’s attention now. Tony didn’t need Peter getting in the way right now. He obviously had somewhere to be and was probably late, judging by the call from Pepper. Or perhaps she had just considered him a flight risk.

He had only met Pepper once, briefly, that first day he had met Tony. She hadn’t seemed like anything impressive at the time, lithe and soft spoken as she had been, but she must have had some steel in her to be able to handle Tony. She was certainly a no-nonsense sort of woman over the phone when Peter had had the opportunity to eavesdrop on a call. He wondered if she was intimidating or just mentally impassible.

He didn’t have to wonder long. Peter was eating eggs and cinnamon toast in his own quarters a bare hour later when the elevator doors dinged and footsteps clicked briskly in his direction. Peter swallowed his mouthful of toast dry and hunched guiltily over his plate. Those weren’t Tony’s footsteps.

It was Pepper, dressed in a smart dress skirt with a packet of papers tucked under one arm. She zeroed in on him and approached without preamble, setting the papers on the kitchen table. She glanced at his plate of food and at Peter himself.

“Of course he does,” was all she said, pulling out a chair and seating herself. “Please sit up, Peter. I’m on a time limit.”

Peter sat up until he could feel the wooden chair pressing into his back, folding his hands in his lap and letting his fingers twist, safely out of sight beneath the table top. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Tony told me about what happened last night.”

Every muscle in Peter’s body seemed to seize up at once, not least of all his heart. This was it. She wasn’t going to wait for him to sell on the open market, she was just going to invoke the guarantee and send him back to the Institute. Stark Industries wouldn’t even feel the monetary loss, it was a drop in the bucket compared to the money Tony had at hand, and it would be well worth it to unload him.

“I have to say,” Pepper continued, and Peter forced himself to stay still and listen, to be good for once. “I hadn’t expected you to go to those lengths.”

_ I didn’t mean to _ , Peter wanted to say.  _ I wasn’t trying anything, I swear. _ He tipped his head down, averting his gaze. Tony must have told her about that night too, after the event. He had probably told her everything all along.

“You’ve really exceeded expectations. It’s not often I’m as pleasantly surprised as this.”

Peter’s head shot back up so quickly that the world began to spin around the edges. He stared at Pepper, ignoring the rush and sway, the blood suddenly pumping double-time through his veins. He must have misheard her, or misinterpreted at least. 

“Ma’am?” he croaked.

“Convincing Tony to stop can be a challenge,” Pepper said. “And especially when he’s been drinking. He was, wasn’t he? Tony didn’t say that part but I could infer.”

That was a difficult question, and not because he didn’t know the answer. She wasn’t his owner and Tony had never outright ordered him to do what she said, but she had status in his life. She was so many ranks above Peter that it was unimaginable, and she was asking a direct question. On the other hand, if Tony hadn’t mentioned it maybe that was for a reason. It generally wasn’t good to give out personal information against the master’s wishes. But… Tony seemed to tell Pepper everything eventually anyway.

After a long, hesitant moment, Peter nodded.

“Tony can be difficult,” Pepper said, and her expression said that ‘difficult’ was too small a word. “I think you know this by now. He’s childish, and he’s stubborn, and he isn’t responsible enough to keep himself alive let alone a company running.” The words came out sharp and fast, a harsh judgment, and Peter’s hackles rose with them. But then Pepper’s expression softened. “He’s also brilliant, and kind, and probably one of the most precious resources on the planet. Not that I’m biased.”

That sounded better. Peter leaned back, not having even realized he’d pushed himself forward as Pepper spoke.

“I see you’ve come to know his better side as well,” she said. “That’s why I’m here. It’s time for phase two.”

Phase two? Peter hadn’t even known there’d been a phase one. The meeting had taken an upswing briefly but it was heading straight back down again, into territory Peter was pretty sure wasn’t anything good. Did Tony even know she had come to visit him? Did he know that she had her own plans for Peter going forward?

“You don’t look convinced,” Pepper said.

Peter cleared his expression, cursing himself. His time with Tony had destroyed as many barriers as had already fallen from his previous year, and these ones were probably worse. These ones were quiet and insidious, working their way into his habits without Peter even knowing they were there. These ones could get a slave beat for insolence or disrespect, or whatever else a master may read into it. Not from Tony, no, but anyone else if he did sell Peter and a reprieve now meant nothing for the future.

“Not good enough,” Pepper said, glancing at her watch. “I don’t have a lot of time. Tony tells me you can speak your thoughts. Do it.”

Tony really had told her everything. It felt as if a bit of his soul had been pulled out and left exposed on the table, a bit of his soul that he had only ever wanted Tony to see. Peter had no right to that sort of privacy and he knew it, but that didn’t stop him from feeling like a raw nerve scraped over concrete.

“I won’t do anything that Mr Stark doesn’t want,” Peter forced himself to murmur. His eyes flicked to Pepper then away again, judging her for displeasure. “ _ He’s _ my owner.”

“I’m not asking you to hurt him,” Pepper said, and when Peter looked up she was  _ smiling _ . “The opposite actually. The whole reason I purchased you was so he would have someone to keep an eye on him because it couldn’t be me anymore.” She opened the manila folder on the table and began to set pieces of paper in a row on the table between them. “He’s a very popular man but he can also be very lonely. He’s well loved but also hated. He’s incredibly strong but he bends under the wrong pressure. Are you seeing a pattern?”

Peter nodded. He had yearned to know his purpose since arriving at Stark Tower but somehow knowing this now did nothing to ease his fears of failure, of doing the wrong thing. Taking care of Tony? Peter did the best he could, he always had, but that was a more complicated task than could be expressed in such a simple sentence. Peter wasn’t even sure he succeeded in that most days.

“On that note… He commands the respect of his allies, and he also raises their ire.”

Pepper pushed a paperclipped bundle of glossy papers toward him. Magazine clippings, he realized. On top was a full cover photo of Peter kneeling at Tony’s feet, head pressed to his leg. Peter lifted the top page and found a spread of photos of them together, sampler cups in hand. Tony with his arm around Peter’s shoulders. Another page, and another. Peter felt sick. When had the pictures even been taken? By who?

“Steve Rogers was the ire this time,” Pepper said, pressing her hand over the stack, forcing it closed in his hands. “It usually is, really, but Tony doesn’t normally take it so hard. He seems to have a soft spot for you.”

“Me?” Peter asked, finally looking Pepper in the eye. She wasn’t telling him something he hadn’t already suspected but she knew more. She seemed liable to keep talking and Peter had been dying to know all night.

“Historically, Captain America never did come out in support of slavery,” she said simply. “He’s not known for it now either. I’m telling you this for a reason, Peter. You need to be careful in public, and you need to be careful around Tony’s team. The things you lead Steve Rogers to believe will come back to haunt Tony, and Tony takes you very seriously.”

Was she really implying that Peter would one day meet Tony’s team?  _ The Avengers?  _ He couldn’t fathom why that would ever happen, unless Tony planned to loan him out to the whole team. Peter held back a shiver. Surely Tony never would.

Pepper pushed forward the next in the row of paper, a single sheet with a neat column of bullet points down the left hand side. “This is a list of things I think you should note regarding Tony. Bad habits. Weaknesses. Things you can do for him.”

_ Excess alcohol consumption _ was the first thing on the list. Peter tucked his hands back under the table, letting his fingers wind together again in frustration. This was exactly what he would have been thrilled to have lined out for him when he was new and unsure what to do. Why now and not then? Why let him fail Tony again and again before offering her help?

“Review it and then throw it away. Tony should never see it.” Peter looked up sharply and his resistance must have been clear on his face because Pepper measured him with a frown. “It’s for his sake, not mine. Tony’s well aware that I know all of his weak points. Tony doesn’t need to know them as well.”

Peter looked away again and nodded. He could think on that particular order later.

The last set of papers was the thickest. Peter looked obediently when Pepper pushed it forward. His gaze caught on the title, the familiar letters and numbers there, and his stomach plummeted.

In bold along the top it read:  **EP623 - M - Experimental Division**

Below it was a bare bones physical description but Peter didn’t need to read any further. It was him. His file. Everything Peter was, written in black on white. Tony had thrown away his copy but there was no throwing away a digital file; something continued even after physical death.

“It’s not your full profile,” Pepper said. “Just the parts you need. I highlighted the areas I think may be useful for Tony or might interest him, and made some notes on things to avoid. I had actually intended to do this earlier but Tony took to you more quickly than expected so I thought it would be best to see what happened organically.” She closed the manila folder in front of her. “I’m glad I did.”

It was all there, laid out before Peter. Him. Tony. Their relationship. Even their outing, the thing Tony had made just for Peter, was there in jarring color, published for the world to see. It was a circus and Peter was the monkey, riding his unicycle just as intended. Pepper had planned it all from the start.

“Steve Rogers has just entered the conference room, Miss Potts.”

“Thank you, JARVIS.” Pepper stood, tucking the envelope under her arm again and smiling benediction down on Peter. “I have to go, but please read all the materials as soon as you can. I’m sorry I left you to flounder for so long but I think it was better this way. Tony doesn’t like to have things forced down his throat and you’ve done perfectly. You’re the best decision I’ve ever made. Keep it that way.”

Pepper turned on her pointed heels and walked briskly away, a busy woman with a busy day ahead. Peter watched her leave and felt… nothing. He had been hollowed out, emptied of all his insides, his thoughts and emotions and dreams gone so much more quickly than they had arrived. It ached, that empty space that he hadn’t even known he had been filling all this time.

Things were as they should be. He had to remember that. Peter must lay his life in the hands of Pepper and Tony and anyone else who held his name, and that was just the way of things. It wasn’t going to change. He had been a fool to ever think it had.

He wasn’t sure how much time ticked by alone in the kitchen, papers spread before him untouched. Too long. Pepper had said to read the papers. She had said to destroy some, and maybe he would. He would do what was best for Tony. That was the goal. That was what he was here for. Pepper had paid the money and now it was time for Peter to be worth it. He sat at the dining table and he read until his eyes burned with the words. 

The articles were the easiest. He could see, looking at them, where he had gone so wrong. Pictures didn’t lie, and some of the accusations on the page, well, those were Peter’s fault. He had let things go too far. He could fix that, he could. It would be hard to do it without upsetting Tony, but if he just stuck to the way things had been before that day, before Peter had begun to push, then it would be fine. He could walk that line.

The list about Tony, that wasn’t so bad either. Peter had known most of it already.

The file, Peter’s file, that hurt through the hollow. Slashes of fluorescent yellow pulled out words, phrases, extracting all the little bits of Peter that had some utility and ignoring the rest. The report on his abilities was last, and the part he dreaded most.  _ Healing/regeneration _ was highlighted, but it was the un-noted “healing begins with epidermis and veins; proceeds from interior to exterior” beneath that set Peter to his feet, staggering to the trash can to vomit up what little toast and eggs he had managed to swallow, hands curled and pressed tightly to his chest. He heaved even once his stomach was empty, uncontrollably, eyes watering with the wracking spasms.

He drank half a glass of water once his stomach had calmed, sipping carefully until his hands stopped shaking. The ghost of hands whispered across his skin, cut through skin and fat to bone, memories crawling through him like spiders, but he pushed them away as hard as he could.

Peter was considering another round with the trash can when the world literally exploded around him, throwing him off his feet, roaring around him so loudly he could hardly process that he was hearing anything at all. Debris slammed over him like a tidal wave. His mouth and nose were full, choking down his throat. His ears rang and Peter vomited again, bewildered and alone.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you approach this chapter, you see it is punctured, ripped, and spattered with blood. Crimson human footprints lead inside through a large hole torn in the chapter's pages. Peeking inside, you see in front of you a tall man in black and red leather, two large katanas crossed on his back. He turns and looks at you with a grin.
> 
> Roll for initiative.
> 
> \----
> 
> Your comments and kudos and bookmarks are SUCH a huge motivator for me, and I appreciate every single one of you. <3

The glass on the front of Peter’s floor was blown in. Peter had pulled a wickedly curved shard of glass from his abdomen and hauled himself to his feet, stumbling out of the kitchen to look for somewhere safe to figure out what was going on, but there was nowhere safe. The wall was gone. ‘Impenetrable’ glass littered the floor and embedded in Peter’s skin where he had fallen. The ringing in his ears had faded to a constant whine, and there was another high-pitched wailing sound just behind it that Peter couldn’t put his finger on.

A natural disaster was his first thought, looking at the blown out debris. A tornado. A hurricane. But there had been the boom, and one rolling shake, and nothing else. The building was still up. It had time to come down, but for now it was up. No, not a natural disaster, with just one wall blown out alone. Then what? He didn’t know what had damaged the Tower but if it happened again, he was sure he didn’t want to be where he was.

Easier said than done. Peter’s world had been very effectively rocked and getting around wasn’t easy with the way it still seemed to actually be rocking. He staggered his way toward the elevator, clutching at walls and furniture as he went and trying not to vomit again. He only realized his mistake once he actually made it.

No buttons, and who the hell made an elevator with no buttons to call it up? A billionaire with more cool ideas than sense, apparently. Normally the doors opened as he approached but it seemed the explosion had knocked out more than just a wall.

“JARVIS?” Peter shouted, though he couldn’t even hear his own voice over the ringing. He only knew he had shouted at all from the vibration in his throat. “JARVIS, open the elevator!”

Nothing happened. Peter swiped angrily at the dust on his face, hand coming away wet and murky. He was stuck up here with no way down, no stairs and wasn’t that some sort of safety violation? 

“JARVIS! First floor!”

It was dead. JARVIS was dead too, probably, and Peter incapacitated. He wouldn’t even hear the next one coming. Peter leaned on his knees and coughed long and hard, lungs screaming from the dust and debris he had inhaled. He could feel blood wet against his arm where it had soaked through his shirt, and the wound on his abdomen complained with each cough. It was too much effort to pull the shirt up and look, and his stinging eyes had more important things to do.

The air was clearing ahead, though, where the hole in the tower was. Maybe he wasn’t stuck. Peter staggered that way. He could see the city now through all the particulates, everything out there exactly as it should be even as he tripped his way through his own demolished life--an overturned couch, the unattached leg of a table. Glass bit into his bare feet but Peter paid it no mind. He’d felt worse. He wasn’t sure anything would ever compare to the feeling of skin peeled off flesh like a kiwi.

Peter came to the edge of the floor where a wall had once been, hand gripping a naked piece of metal, a remnant of the frame that had held glass until just recently, and looked down. The glass of the floor below was badly damaged but still intact, and the floors below that seemed almost untouched, smooth glass cascading away before him to the ground. He remembered what Happy had said when he first arrived about the windows being “basically” indestructible. Not indestructible enough for whatever had hit Peter’s floor, but enough to save the rest. As the highest part of the building, it seemed his quarters had taken the brunt of whatever had found its way there.

He could climb it, making his sticky way down the glass to the ground. Except… Except he’d never climbed so far and never from so high up, and he had had his share of falls on better surfaces than this. Worse, the glass below his floor was so damaged there was no way to know if it would hold up to someone making their way across it. And if he did make it down, what then? That was  _ escape _ . That was abandonment of his post and his master, and nevermind the certain doom if something else hit the tower while he was still there. Anything and everything could be twisted if the wrong person was writing the narrative.

There was another option. The ringing in Peter’s ears had fallen enough that he could make out the noise that had been irritating him. Alarms were ringing through the tower, loud and abrasive, screaming their displeasure. Where there were alarms, reinforcements would come. It was a tower full of superheroes, and they were all in today for the meeting.

Peter’s eyes searched the sky for a glint of red and gold but all he saw was smog and debris. He could wait. Tony Stark would waste no time in suiting up and heading out in protection of his own. He would come eventually and carry Peter down, away from the smoke and the klaxons and the total destruction of everything Peter had come to find comfort in.

Tony Stark would come, yes, and he would take Peter down with him. Tony, who didn’t even want Peter, had never wanted Peter. Tony who had so many more important things to do while his building wailed and his people cried for him--so many people, on every floor, all of them panicking far below Peter’s feet.

There was another crash from somewhere behind him accompanied by a shriek of metal. Peter flinched and shut his eyes, pressing both palms to his temples and squeezing. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t hear. Every part of him hurt, inside and out, and something more was coming, he could feel it. His senses were screaming at him to go but there was nowhere  _ to  _ go, and certainly not back.

Peter opened his eyes, looking out over the city and the empty skies. He released his hands from his head, wiping away snot and tears mixed with grit. He stepped forward, toes gripping the metal rim that had once held a window, and breathed through the burn. The sky was gray today and he thought about how unfortunate that was, how he wished he could see the sunset gradient of purples and pinks and golds spread broad before him.

Not for him, though. Never for Peter. He let go of the frame in his hand, shut his eyes, and stepped into free air.

He hadn’t expected the pure, debilitating panic the moment his body was falling through the air, nothing beneath him and nothing to hold. Peter flailed on instinct, the ringing muted enough now that he could hear his own scream.

Something seized hard around his ankle and held, his body’s weight yanking hard at the join of thigh and hip. He slammed back against the glass below, knocking his burning lungs empty of air and taking the unfinished scream with it.

“Well that seems like kind of an overreaction,” a cheerful-if-strained voice said from above as someone began to reel him up, hand over hand. “It can’t be  _ that  _ bad.”

Peter gaped wordlessly, fighting to breathe again as his calves felt solid floor beneath them. There was a man above him, or what he assumed was a man because the guy was covered head to toe in black and red leather. He had each leg propped against opposite window supports as he hauled Peter up, spread eagled at an angle that didn’t look comfortable or even quite physically possible.

The man’s empty white eye holes looked at the collar on Peter’s neck and they… widened. “Or maybe it can. Want me to let go?”

“No!” Peter said, heart thumping and regretting the moment he had decided to take that step because falling was  _ really not all it was cracked up to be.  _ He tried to sit up, to lift himself enough to grab something and help pull himself up, but the glass he had pulled from his stomach must have done more damage than he realized because his muscles couldn’t quite make it.

“Then heave-ho,” the man said, beginning to lift again. “Really not how I originally imagined my day going, you know? Nice relaxing time at Avengers tower, pow-wow with the team, maybe a little Stark appreciation for the amazing job I’ve been doing. But hey, plans are made to be altered and I am nothing if not flexible. You guys didn’t need this floor, right? I know it’s rude for a guest to help in the blowing up of the host’s home, but it was necessary. Probably.”

Peter’s blood ran cold. This must be the guy, the one Tony had been talking about. The one Tony had been very vocally opposed to hosting at the tower. What all had he said about him? He was a murderer, for sure. He had katanas. Peter was pretty sure the word psychopath had come up more than once. Tony didn’t trust him. How had he made it up here?

“Hey, you got any, uh, rope down there?” the man asked, breaking from his dialogue. “Or like, a grappling hook is good too.”

Was the glass going the wrong way again? It sort of felt like Peter was sliding down now, a little bit. Peter lifted his head, wild-eyed, and looked up at the guy above him. The mask was alarmed. Could a mask look alarmed? Peter’s thighs were halfway up now, those hands clutching hard at his hip bones, and Peter was so close he could almost grab the frame if the muscles in his stomach would just work with him for a second…

“Ah fuck,” the man said.

There was an alarming, sharp snap from above and Peter was falling again. He smacked his hand down onto the glass, desperate for any purchase, body rolling and flipped over itself as it fell. The hand held, shoulder jerking with the force of his body’s weight coming to an abrupt halt--and the leather-clad man with him.

“That’s useful!” he said, clinging to Peter with both arms around his waist. “That hand thing, super useful.”

Peter smacked his other hand down, panting. Don’t look down. Don’t look down.

“I mean, you could’ve told me about it before I broke both legs, but now’s good too. Better late than never.”

Did he ever stop talking? Peter laid his head back against the glass and squeezed his eyes shut. He had to get back to the top. Or would it be better to inch his way down, now that he knew the damaged glass would hold? It was a long way down, though, and he wasn’t sure how well he could pull them up with his back against the glass and his arms twisted the other way. He tried an experimental twist, but with the other man clinging to his front he couldn’t turn the right way around. No, up was definitely better.

Peter’s eyes blinked open. The man was… climbing him. “What are you doing?”

“You seemed a little busy so I thought I’d save the day--again. I’m getting pretty good at that. Think they’ll make me an official Avenger soon?”

That was a hard no if Tony had anything to do with it, but now didn’t seem like a good time to say that.

“Hey, did you know you’re bleeding?” the man asked, pausing with his face even to Peter’s wounded belly.

“Yes,” Peter forced out. He felt laid out and pinned like a frog for dissection.

“More blood than I’d expect for a wound that size, and I’d know about that. I caused plenty of ‘em myself.” He didn’t hang around any longer than that, though, inching his way up until they were chest to chest, leather-clad arms around Peter’s neck and masked face pressing up against his cheek. “You’re very interesting, did you know that?”

Peter didn’t know that. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, actually.

“Ooh,” the man said, peering over Peter’s shoulder. “Daddy’s home.”

Peter really hoped “daddy” wasn’t whoever had caused the destruction to the tower. He looked in that direction as well, terrified for what may be coming for them now but it was Iron Man, shining in red and gold like a beacon and barrelling straight for them. Relief flushed through Peter and then Tony was there, grabbing him around the waist, the armor cold and hard against Peter’s back. They dipped just a moment as they pulled away from the building, but a moment later Iron Man had accounted for the extra weight and they were heading up and out, away from the smoke and shattered glass.

Peter didn’t get even a moment to let the relief settle in.

“Deadpool, what the hell are you doing here?” Iron Man yelled, voice digitally amplified and tinny.

“Um, saving your property?” Deadpool’s head was still on Peter’s shoulder, leaving him face to face with the Iron Man mask. “You were taking your sweet time so I figured someone should. Didn’t your mom ever teach you to take care of your things?”

“That’s it, you’re off at the next building. Peter, you hang tight.”

“Peter? Did he come with that or did they let you name him?”

“I swear to God, Deadpool-”

But Deadpool wasn’t looking at Iron Man anymore. His focus was over both their shoulders, the white eyes of the mask growing wide and round. “ _ That’s _ new.”

Something hit them with a resounding crash. Peter couldn’t see it but the impact crushed his arm between the armor’s bicep and chest and was rapidly released. Iron Man had jolted hard in the air, spinning out in a wild arc, damaged arm dropping to dangle uselessly at his side. The world was a dizzy whirl of color and light around them. 

“Shit, I’m- I’ve gotta drop you!” Iron Man said. With only one arm functional, they were spinning in the direction of the nearest rooftop. “Hold on. Almost there.” They were close now. A high pitched whine was emanating from somewhere inside the Iron Man armor. The building crept nearer. “Brace yourself!” Just a moment more and they would be there.

“Bombs away!” Deadpool chirruped, legs wrapping around Peter’s hips and arms tightening around his chest.

There was another crash on the opposite side of the armor as the first, slamming them  _ away _ from the building. Iron Man’s hold failed. Peter couldn’t even force out a scream as he fell this time, Deadpool’s arms constricting tight around his ribs.

“Don’t worry, boo, I got this,” Deadpool yelled in his ear, voice warm and wild. “You’re welcome!”

\---

There was grit against his cheek and in his mouth and it was  _ moving _ . Peter coughed and tried to curl in on himself, to find something softer and warmer to hide in, but there was something holding him up by the ankles. Manacles? 

“You’re awake!”

“Murgh.” Peter squeezed his eyes tightly shut for a moment, resigning himself to awareness. Whatever was happening, no way it was good, but there was no ignoring it any longer. He healed just too quickly for that.

What he saw when he blinked his eyes open, though, wasn’t anything like what Peter had expected. Dingy brick walls hemmed him in on both sides and a man in red and black leather was dragging him feet first across the ground.

_ Deadpool _ .

“I wasn’t sure how long you’d be out.” Deadpool dragged him another foot then dropped him. “Healing factors can be a real toss up.”

“Where am I?” More importantly, where was Tony? Peter rolled onto his side, away from the strange man in the strange costume, but was forced to pause there as the world swam dangerously.

“Dirty alley number two.” Footsteps approached. Black combat boots strapped with red leather stopped in front of Peter’s face. “You’re not gonna puke, are you?”

“No,” Peter whispered.

“Good!”

Deadpool leaned over, grabbed Peter under the arms, and yanked him to his feet. 

_ Everything hurt. _ Peter hissed out a breath, folding over at the waist and shutting his eyes at the way the world just wouldn’t stop spinning. He was forced to grab hold of Deadpool and lean heavily there or else hit the ground, and he was really considering whether the ground would have been the better choice. This was not good, not good at all. Peter didn’t know much about Deadpool but he knew he was bad news, and he knew that he needed to get back to Stark Tower before something bad happened. Before something  _ worse _ happened.

“Not fully healed, huh?” Deadpool patted the back of Peter’s head. “My bad.”

“I-I’m fine.” Peter stumbled back a step, willing himself upright and refusing to sway with his surroundings. “I need to go back now. I have to go back.”

Was Tony looking for him? How long had he been unconscious? It was a little darker than it had been when they had fallen, maybe, but it had been hard to see through the haze of dust and debris and he hadn’t exactly been looking at the position of the sun when he was falling. Either time.

“And give up this little bit of freedom? I couldn’t possibly let you do that.” Deadpool’s face was unreadable behind the mask but his voice sounded so friendly. It was almost enough to make Peter overlook the katanas on his back and the knives strapped visibly in many, many places on his body. Almost.

“I need to find Mr Stark.” 

“Nuh uh, no way, I found you. That means I get to keep you.”

That was  _ not _ a good sign. “That’s… really not how it works.” He winced even as he said it because this wasn’t Tony and he wasn’t in the tower. Then again, this  _ wasn’t _ Tony and they sure as hell  _ weren’t  _ in the tower. Protesting was probably the best thing he could do.

Peter glanced behind Deadpool where the mouth of the alley lay open, edging closer to the wall in that direction. If he could just get by he was sure he could get hold of Tony somehow, or turn himself in to the police before he was caught loose. They would return him to Stark Tower… or turn him into the SRA. The Slavery Regulatory Agency wasn’t exactly known for it’s welcoming and understanding nature.

“Me and Iron Man are buds, it’ll be fine!” Deadpool stepped into Peter’s path and reached up, hand settling on the collar. Peter went still. When Deadpool spoke next his voice had gone deep and silky. “Unless you’re going to tell me that Tony Stark doesn’t share with his friends?”

No, no, no. Red alert. Sound the alarms. The day had already gone sideways but of course it could get worse. Things could always get worse. Peter glanced up at the sky, hoping to see that glint of red and gold arriving just in the nick of time again, but the sky was crystal clear and empty.

His mind flashed on the memory of Iron Man’s arm hanging loose at his side, the way they had careened through the sky, control out more than in. He hadn’t even seen Tony after the second hit. What if he had fallen too?

Deadpool’s finger slipped under the collar, knocking him from his thoughts. Peter’s eyes shot to the man, to that mask that somehow managed to peer intently at him, and he swallowed hard. The wall pressed into his back and Peter wasn’t sure when he had backed up but it meant he was trapped now.

“Or maybe he keeps you all to himself. Doesn’t let you out of his sight? Is that it?”

Peter hesitated only a split second before nodding. Yes, let Deadpool think that. It wasn’t even a lie, was it? Tony never loaned Peter out, not in the way Deadpool seemed to be implying and not in any other way either. Maybe if he had the fear of Iron Man in him he would give Peter back or at least go his separate way. At least Deadpool seemed to be assuming Iron Man was still alive and well.

“Rude,” Deadpool murmured.

Deadpool’s head tilted down by a bare few millimeters but somehow Peter knew he was looking at the collar. The leather of the suit was coarse against his skin as Deadpool’s finger slid along underneath, those cartoon eyes narrowing in thought, and how did they  _ do  _ that? Peter couldn’t see any indication that the mask was anything but plain leather with some sort of white membrane over the eyes.

Deadpool’s head tipped back up. The eyes narrowed further. “Don’t bother trying to question the logic. Sacrifices have to be made when you switch mediums.”

“Wha-” The word choked off as Deadpool’s finger suddenly tightened, hooking in the collar and twisting sharply until it cut into the flesh of his neck, lifting Peter onto the tips of his toes.

“This doesn’t look very comfortable,” Deadpool said. “Not very well made either. Not what I expect from Tony Stark.”

Peter lifted one hand to the collar as well, trying to get his own finger in enough to pull it away from his neck but it was too tight. Deadpool had twisted up all the slack and there was no loosening it, not without knocking Deadpool away and circumstances weren’t dire enough to physically assault a free person. He could still breathe in short breaths and if that changed, if it was clear Deadpool was trying to kill him, maybe then-

“Nah,” Deadpool said, straightening up and bringing Peter with him, feet fully off the ground now. Peter’s back arched, head hitting hard against the brick behind him and feet readying to push off even as his brain screamed not to do anything hasty. “I don’t like it.”

Deadpool placed one hand on Peter’s chest, pinning him against the wall, and yanked. The collar snapped. Deadpool clutched it in his hand didn’t otherwise move. Peter still couldn’t draw in a good breath with the pressure against his chest and back. His ribs smarted beneath the hand there and he was pretty sure he had injured them during the fall because they were really, really unhappy. 

Deadpool studied his neck for a moment where the collar had been, humming to himself a bit. Then he turned casually away, releasing Peter as he inspected the links of metal he’d torn off instead.

Peter let himself fall to the ground, gasping, both hands coming to rest around his bare, stinging throat but eyes glued to the madman in front of him. Tony was so absolutely right. The guy was psychotic.

“I wonder if this one has an alarm when it’s disconnected,” Deadpool was saying, turning the chain over in his fingers. He turned back around, gesturing with one hand to the wall where Peter had been and blinking expansively on finding it empty. “Why are you on the ground again?”

“I fell,” Peter said, beginning to slowly push himself upright along the wall at his back, gritting his teeth against the pain.

Deadpool dropped the chain and rushed forward. It was quite possibly the second most terrifying thing to happen all day, actually, right after the big explosion and just barely edging ahead of the freefall that had ended in Peter, well,  _ here _ . Peter flattened out against the wall, seriously considering whether he should just climb it and risk the consequences, but then Deadpool was-

Hugging him.

And making shushing noises in his ear, which was just as confusing as the hug because Peter was definitely not crying. It was a strange feeling, the warm, rough leather against his skin, arms around him with enough pressure to hold him there but not enough to really dig into his bruises. When Deadpool tucked Peter’s head into his neck as part of an overall petting, Peter let his head stay there because it didn’t seem like he had any other choice. The warmth was nice anyway and this was better than being slammed against the wall again.

“You poor thing,” Deadpool was saying as he stroked Peter like a stray kitten. “I forgot you have the  _ shitty _ version of the advanced healing factor. You really got the short end of the stick in this universe, didn’t you? A slave who heals but  _ not _ quite fast enough, wow. Fuck your creator, am I right?”

“Um.” Was he railing against god and the heavens now? Peter was sure that it had all made some sense in Deadpool’s head but he was beginning to realize that Deadpool sense may not necessarily be other people sense.

“Take me for example.” Deadpool backed up and off Peter, taking his warmth with him and wiggling his fingers in the air. “I’ve lost these puppies more times that I can count. Broken ‘em even more than that. Good as new in no time at all. It’s only been, what, an hour since I broke both legs?” Deadpool danced a little jig, ending it with a ta-dah. “Good as new! But here you are, having used me as a trampoline to land your triple somersault, and you’re still feeling what I walked off in a couple minutes. Does that seem fair?”

He really seemed to want an answer and Peter really didn’t know what was going on but humoring him seemed the best idea for now. “No?” he ventured.

“No!” Deadpool said. “Exactly! Injustice on injustice, Peter.”

“I’m okay, really,” Peter said slowly. “I could just go-”

“Let me make it up to you,” Deadpool said. “With a burrito. You feeling a burrito?” Deadpool’s eyebrows wiggled and how that was possible was just another mystery. They were really stacking up now. “I could eat about three right now.”

Deadpool didn’t expect an answer this time, apparently, and that was how fifteen minutes later found Peter gnawing on the largest burrito he had ever on a picnic bench in the middle of the city, neck conspicuously bare. He had been convinced that everyone he passed would somehow be able to sense it, that someone would charge up screaming that he was an escaped slave and Peter would be taken in. It wasn’t even his fault, he hadn’t ripped his own collar off and run off on his own, but there was no good way to handle the situation. He would be caught and  _ bad things _ would happen. 

Only after they had walked the street, stood in line at a food truck, ordered food directly from an oblivious man in a truck, and walked away scot free had Peter begun to relax. Deadpool really had gotten three whole burritos for himself and had seemed honest to god disappointed when Peter had only wanted one. It was a tactical decision, honestly, because being in Deadpool’s debt didn’t seem like a positive thing. The sooner he finished his burrito, the sooner he could find a moment to slip away and back to Tony.

If Tony was even still alive. That was the question of the night, and it was eating him alive.

“Is he okay?” Peter asked, interrupting Deadpool’s monologue about the proper way to puncture a man’s lung. He thought maybe he should be a little worried at how quickly he had gotten over his horror at the things Deadpool said but it wasn’t like he was planning on ever seeing him again, and Deadpool didn’t seem inclined to stab Peter so things seemed relatively okay for now.

“Oh no, baby, he’s like, super dead,” Deadpool said. Peter’s heart seized, but Deadpool continued, waving his burrito in the air and sending pieces of meat and salsa flying. “Because I followed up the punctured lung with a punctured heart. I hadn’t gotten to that point in the story yet but I can speed it up-”

He wasn’t talking about Tony. God, jesus, Peter couldn’t take another shock for the day, not a single one.

“I meant Mr Stark,” Peter said. “After… Whatever happened today.”

“Oh.  _ Him _ .” Deadpool wiped his mouth with the back of his still-clothed hand. He had pulled his mask up just enough to eat, revealing a chin pocked with scars and ignoring the way Peter’s eyes trailed to it on occasion as they ate. “I saw him circling around where we went down. S’why I pulled you into that alley.”

Tony had been flying around after the drop. He had been searching for Peter. Peter took another bite of his burrito, finally feeling like he could actually swallow it down now, taking comfort in the knowledge that Tony was okay and where he was at now was only temporary. The Avengers wouldn’t let him fly around if he was really hurt. Tony was looking for Peter.

And Deadpool had hidden him.

“I thought maybe you’d like my first answer better,” Deadpool said. “Y’know, what with the never ending servitude and all.”

“Mr Stark is a good master,” Peter said, something in him squirming as he said the words.

“He only beats you on Sundays?” Deadpool took a casual sip of his horchata.

“No, he-” Peter stopped, frustrated. Deadpool’s tone made it obvious that he was maligning Tony but there was no good way to defend against that. A master that couldn’t punish their slave wasn’t a good thing, and it was idiotically brave of Deadpool to even imply it as a bad thing. Unless maybe it was a trap, in which case it would be idiotically  _ idiotic _ for Peter to say anything incriminating.

Unless he wanted to be taken from Tony. His mind stuttered to a halt at the thought, eyes on Deadpool. To be in the possession of Deadpool? Not good. To be in the possession of Tony? Better, but all indications pointed to also not great, if Pepper had anything to do with it. He hadn’t forgotten the things he had read, the thoughts Tony had assuredly been having recently, but proximity to a greater threat had let him set those thoughts aside for just a little while.

Maybe it would be better to start again. Maybe the next master would beat him again, or give him tasks he didn’t want, but surely not another one would want to dissect his abilities. Surely not three in a row. Maybe somewhere new would be better.

With another black mark on his record.

And why did Deadpool care anyway?

“O-kay,” Deadpool said, drawing the word out. “Well this has been a riveting discussion-”

“Do you work for the SRA?” Peter interrupted.

Deadpool recoiled as if slapped. “Do I  _ look _ like I work for the SRA?”

Peter glanced over the full body leather suit, the katanas on Deadpool’s back and the knife strapped to his calf. He surveyed the burrito wrappers balled up on the table between them, remembering the trials and tribulations Deadpool had expounded on at length as he devoured them. “Maybe not?”

“Definitely not.” Deadpool corrected, voice pitching dangerously low. “And why would you even have to worry about that?”

“I’m not. I mean, I don’t. Worry about that.” Okay, yeah, he totally believed Deadpool and he didn’t know why the man was so offended about it but backtracking seemed the best thing to do now. “Obviously you, um, you seem way too intense for the SRA. A free spirit!” Deadpool bared his teeth at that and Peter only barely resisted the urge to throw the remainder of his burrito at the man and run far, far away. Why was he still talking? He should stop talking. It wasn’t good form to talk anyway, and Deadpool obviously wasn’t liking it. “It was a dumb question! I’m sorry!”

Deadpool stood and leaned on the table with both hands, looming so close to Peter’s face he could feel breath against his forehead. “If I were working for the SRA, would I not like what I found?”

Peter fought every bit of himself to keep from leaning back hard, to stay put.  _ Be good. Be good. Be good.  _ “N-no, sir. Everything is fine.” Back to Tony was better. Back to Tony was definitely, completely, 100% better.

“There are rules, you know,” Deadpool said, and the white eyes of the mask were blank but the way they slanted looked so angry. “Did you know that?”

Peter nodded, pulse thrumming in his ears. “We follow the rules, sir. Mr Stark follows all of them and, and I follow Mr Stark’s orders.”

It didn’t seem to make Deadpool any happier. “Do you even know them?”

His first instinct was to say yes, of course he did, he was a good, law abiding slave who would never do anything he shouldn’t. The Bradley Institute had taught him what he couldn’t do, and of course Mr Stark kept him in line, honest… But there was something about the danger in Deadpool’s tone that stilled Peter’s tongue. There was something lurking there, he knew that even without having heard Tony’s opinion of the man, and he was starting to realize that there was no predicting what Deadpool wanted.

“That’s what I thought.” Deadpool leaned in closer, nearly pressing them cheek to cheek to whisper in Peter’s ear. “Don’t you ever get tired of being their toy?”

Peter didn’t dare turn away, duck his head, or even draw a breath. There was tension in the air, like the building of a lightning strike or the moment before the predator attacked, just one moment of focused silence before the snap. If Deadpool was expecting an answer he would find himself disappointed, because there was no good answer to that and Peter could hardly even think to come up with one.

Deadpool leapt. Peter jerked back, knee smacking the underside of the picnic table as he tried to scramble away. Deadpool, crouching on the table top, wound both arms around Peter and pulled, dragging him onto the table alongside him.

Peter managed to get his knees under himself with effort, both hands fisting in the leather suit along Deadpool’s sides to stay upright. The tension in Deadpool seemed to have dropped away as he manhandled Peter around to sit, legs hanging over the side with Deadpool’s arm slung casually over his shoulder. He pulled Peter in close and sat, placid once more.

The man was  _ crazy _ .

Deadpool leaned his head against Peter’s. People were staring. “You could go, you know.”

“Go?” Peter choked out, eyes flicking over the crowd, wondering if he should call for help. “Go where?”

“Anywhere.” Deadpool grinned and took another sip, but the eyes of the mask didn’t reflect that grin, gone round and neutral. “The world is your oyster.”

Peter turned to stare straight ahead. “I don’t want to go anywhere, Mr Deadpool.”

“You should.” Deadpool kicked his legs back and forth over the table edge like a bored child. “Run away with me, Petey. We’ve got five minutes to start our love story. Are you in?”

Peter was starting to think there was no good response to Deadpool in general. No logic. He didn’t have to worry about it for long, though, because there was a sound overhead like a jet and Iron Man was flying toward them. Again.

“God _ dammit _ ,” Deadpool yelled, jumping to his feet and pointing at Iron Man as he touched down with a clang. “You’re early!”

“I’m sorry, did you have an appointment?” Iron Man demanded, striding forward. He sounded angrier than Peter had ever heard him. “If so, it’s cancelled. Give him back, Deadpool.”

“It’s not too late, Petey,” Deadpool said to Peter, stepping between them. Tony was in a different suit, Peter thought dully to himself, remembering the mangled armor he had last seen. “We could go to France. Or Hawaii. I’d look great in a hula skirt.”

“Stop talking to him,” Iron Man barked, and then the face plate went up and it was Tony looking out, face pink and eyes dark. He stretched out one arm, beckoning. “Peter, come on, it’s okay. We can go home now.”

“Or Canada,” Deadpool said. “Nice people. Never have to say yes again.”

Peter was starting to think Deadpool was serious. He wasn’t moving, blocking Tony’s path to Peter and with so many bystanders around, he doubted Tony would leap straight to force. Not with Deadpool just standing between them, easy as can be. No violence. No threats. Just an offer.

“Peter?” Tony was still waiting, one arm held out, but uncertainty was beginning to stretch across his features.

Peter looked at Tony and he wanted to go to him, he did, but he remembered the yellow slash of highlights in the paperwork. He thought back to the way Tony had seemed so entranced when Peter gripped the table and held them both up. He thought of Pepper, so pleased with his ‘progress’ and determined to make him whatever Tony needed.

Tony’s mouth had set in a grim line. He gestured around what few people were left with one repulsor. “All of you. Leave now. I’m not joking.”

Peter watched the little patch of outside eating space empty out, mouth dry. He should get up and go to Tony. There was no outcome except going back with Tony no matter what Deadpool said, and waiting would just make things worse. It wasn’t like staying with Deadpool was a real alternative anyway.

“What did you say to him, Deadpool?” Tony asked, voice rough. But he didn’t step closer.

“Just the usual,” Deadpool said. “Have you ever thought maybe you just don’t hug him enough? That’s called neglect, Iron Man.”

“You obviously said something but fine, keep it to yourself. It’s time for Peter to come home. Step aside, Deadpool.”

“And miss your sweet attention? Never.”

This was getting out of hand. Everyone was gone but Tony and Deadpool were both getting more upset, and Peter was upset now, and the tower was falling apart and everything was wrong.

“Deadpool-”

“I don’t want to be experimented on,” Peter blurted, heart racing.

“What?” Tony asked, freezing.

“ _ Stark _ ?” Deadpool growled.

Peter’s hands were gripping the table so hard it had begun to creak beneath him. He released his hold and leaned forward against his knees instead, looking down so he wouldn’t have to look at Tony. “I won’t go back. If you’re going to.”

“I’ve never touched him,” Tony snapped, and Peter couldn’t see it but he was obviously addressing Deadpool. “Not for that.”

“Not for  _ that _ .”

“Stay the fuck out of this!” Tony snapped. 

Peter flinched and hunched further in on himself. The conflict was his fault, all his fault. He should have just gone to Tony when he landed. He should have run when he woke up. He shouldn’t have opened his big dumb mouth and he shouldn’t have jumped.

“Sorry, Peter. I’m sorry.” Tony’s voice had dropped, and he wasn’t begging but there was a question there and a request. “But it’s time to go home. We can figure things out there.”

“Yeah, let’s go home. Just the three of us.”

“You’re not going anywhere near the tower again.”

“That’s not what Fury said,” Deadpool said, voice a sing-song.

“Fuck you and fuck Fury. You’re done, Deadpool. You were done the second you took Peter.”

“At least he let  _ me _ .” Not even true, actually, but Peter couldn’t open his mouth to deny it. “Doesn’t seem like he wants to go with you.”

Silence. Nothing from Tony in response, and that was worse. Peter lifted his head and finally looked. Tony was staring right at him, dark eyes unblinking, expression carefully blank.

“I wouldn’t,” Tony finally said, speaking to Peter this time. “If you didn’t know that already, know it now. Come home, Peter.”

Peter glanced at Deadpool. Neither of the men were moving a muscle. Deadpool was still parked between Tony and Peter, hands loose at his sides, but Peter had seen how quickly he could move. Carefully Peter got to his feet and stepped forward, hesitated a moment, then continued step by slow step until he had passed Deadpool. The mask turned and watched him go, following his movements like a snake watching a mouse move through the grass

But that didn’t matter. Tony was there and reaching both arms out this time, relief washing over his face as Peter slid into them. “Feet on mine. You good?”

“Good,” Peter whispered, quaking now for no reason at all.

The face plate hissed shut. “Hold on as tight as you want, but I’ve got you.”

And then they were off, the ground falling away beneath them, the Iron Man armor a hard press against his front and around his waist.

“I don’t like oysters that much anyway!” Deadpool shouted behind them, and then they were above the buildings and headed back the way they had come.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, guys! I swear the publishing of my new fic, Like Smoke, didn't cause the delay. There has been some reworking of this fic behind the scenes and some tough decisions made. The good news is, there will now be MORE of it! After all 20ish chapters of this are done, there will be a shorter sequel released to finish it off. It just didn't make thematic or dramatic sense to publish the entire thing in one story. So remember to follow the series as well to ensure you're notified of the new fic when it is released after this one!
> 
> Many many many thanks to the wonderful TheRegalHarvester for all of her absolutely irreplaceable help in making the plot do what I want it to do. ALL the love!
> 
> (Side note, sorry if you got two notifications that this chapter posted... I accidentally posted before I was ready!)

He had hardly seen Tony since their arrival at the tower. They had been expected, judging by the small crowd of people on the rooftop when they landed. The building itself had still been standing, smoking and damaged but looking as strong and sturdy as ever, but Peter didn’t have a chance to assess how damaged. As soon as they had touched down the arguing had begun, and Peter had been passed off to Happy with little ceremony. Peter had walked by Thor,  _ Thor, the god of thunder _ , but little else had managed to sink through his skull to his long term memory.

He wasn’t sure where he had been expecting to go with his own quarters in ruins. Another floor, maybe, because there was no lack of them in the tower and surely there was an empty room somewhere. They could tuck him away, out of sight out of mind, and Peter could lick his wounds and think about all the mistakes he had made.

Instead Happy took him to Tony’s quarters and then into Tony’s room, and had shut the door with instructions to  _ stay there _ which, okay, Peter could do that. Stay was easy. Where to stay was harder. He had been on Tony’s bed before, had slept there, but that had been with Tony at his side. It seemed sacrilege to even sit there now, and maybe more open than he would have preferred anyway, even with all the lights off. Too exposed.

Not that it would help him in the event of another explosion. Nothing would help him then. But creature comforts came first, something to soothe his racing thoughts now that he was alone again, nothing to distract him from the things that had gone wrong and the things that still could.

So Peter tucked himself haltingly into the corner between the wall and the bed, laid his head back, and fell almost immediately to sleep.

He woke to the sound of the door opening and the soft brush of light across the dark room. Tony must have finished whatever meetings and arguments and duties he had, finally. Peter sat up, wincing as his ribs and his stomach complained. There was no telling what Tony was thinking, about the tower and Peter and Deadpool and everything else, but he had said he wouldn’t… He had promised… Had he promised though?

“Peter?” a man’s soft, quiet voice called. A stranger’s voice.

Just like that, Peter’s blood was zipping through his veins at high speed once more. He was fully awake in moments, knocked from woeful thoughts and hope alike.

“Tony sent me,” the voice said, and it sounded sort of familiar but not familiar enough. “He didn’t want you to leave the tower to see a doctor.”

Silence for one long moment. Peter pressed his palms to the wall, wondering if he could climb it to the ceiling and bunker down there. His grip had held tight on the glass and the wall was rougher, higher coefficient of friction-

“JARVIS, turn on the lights.”

Too late now. The lights flickered on and Peter blinked hard against them, gathering himself inside the corner and rising slowly to his feet. He paused, though, as he recognized Bruce Banner standing in the middle of the room. The Hulk. One of Tony’s, and someone he had spoken highly of.

“Hey, uh, sorry. To come in on you like that.” Banner raised both hands as he spotted Peter. He was shorter than Peter would have expected, if he had expected anything at all.

“It’s okay,” Peter said, dropping his eyes and forcing himself to relax. He felt the missing collar like a chill band around his throat. Would Banner notice? Would he chide Peter for it? “Sir.”

“Tony asked me to check on you,” Banner said, not moving forward. “He said you were on the top floor when the building was hit. I’m a doctor so we thought maybe you’d let me take a look?”

Peter touched his rib with his right hand, then the healing wound where the glass had stuck him like a pin cushion. Pain sparked through him, duller than when they had been new but bruised from his time traversing the city with Deadpool. Peter flicked his eyes consideringly at Bruce, only to find the man’s eyes tracing the movement of his hand.

“I’m okay,” Peter tried, hand dropping. “I heal. Sir.”

Bruce shook his head, hefting the bag in his left hand. “I know but it’s either me or a hospital, and Tony is not going for the hospital idea and Cap’s dug his heels in about medical treatment.” Bruce shrugged. “Not that Tony’s fighting him on that. I’m not either, for that matter.”

Peter stepped stiffly away from the wall, focus sharp on Banner. This was Tony’s friend. Tony’s associate. He was doing what Tony asked, and Tony wouldn’t ask for more than Peter could give. And he had promised.

And yet Peter didn’t move any further forward. Banner was watching him, quiet and contained, and he wasn’t moving either. They stood in stalemate for several long seconds, Peter tense and Banner relaxed. Peter wasn’t sure what had him frozen because this guy had some sort of strange dampening effect on Peter’s frayed nerves. Maybe it was knowing just what could happen if Banner became… upset.

The stalemate was broken when Banner stepped  _ back _ . He sidestepped the closed door and leaned against the wall beside it, folding down to sit cross-legged on the floor, the bag tucked against his side. “To be honest I’m pretty tired so I’m just gonna sit here for a while, if that’s fine with you.”

“On the floor?” Peter asked, staring. This was not how any doctor’s visit had ever gone.

Banner gave him a half smile and it was only then Peter noticed the exhaustion wrinkled in the fine lines around his eyes. “I’ve sat on the floor more than chairs the past few years. I’m fine.” The smile fell away as Banner leaned his head back against the wall, letting his eyes fall shut. “Whenever you’re ready, just take a seat.”

Banner was taking deep breaths in and out, seemingly heedless of anything that could be going on around him. Peter shifted awkwardly on his feet, glancing back at the corner he had risen from, then the bed he had shunned. He had almost wondered, almost expected, that maybe Banner hadn’t been sent by Tony at all. Maybe he’d come of his own volition and for his own purposes. But Banner’s eyes had been warm and everything about him so calm, and now here he was, doing a good impression of drowsing against the wall of Tony’s bachelor pad. He didn’t act like someone sneaking in after someone else’s slave.

He couldn’t knock the thought that Banner was never truly unarmed. Tony either, though, really. He could call the suit at a moment’s notice, demonstrably. Peter made his slow way forward and folded down to sit in front of Banner. He hadn’t made much sound and Banner hadn’t so much as twitched, but somehow he thought Banner knew he was there anyway.

“I’m ready, sir.”

Banner hummed but didn’t move for a full few seconds. Peter was beginning to think he had actually fallen asleep when Banner finally sat up, frowning as he stretched along one side. “You can just call me Bruce. Or Dr Banner. I’m not really a sir kind of guy.”

No one seemed to be, here. “Okay. Dr Banner.”

“Seems like your ribs are bugging you?” Banner asked, turning to open the bag and rifle inside. “Go ahead and lift your shirt so I can take a look. What else is injured?”

This was routine. This was something Peter could let himself sink into like a well worn shirt. Banner’s voice was easy and soothing as he gave this command and that, his hands firm but gentle, probing but businesslike. Peter lifted his limbs and turned himself and answered questions, and he didn’t even have to think about it. There was something simple and calming about action when it was pure  _ re _ action.

“Do you want any pain killers? They have a sedative effect.” Banner asked as he carefully stitched the slice in Peter’s stomach.

The question knocked Peter from the neutral sea he had been floating. 

“Sedatives?” Peter repeated. His mind flashed to early days in the tower, when he had drifted on a haze from one dose of medication to the next, lost in his new life. “What for, Dr Banner?” he asked carefully.

Banner gave him a brief, searching look. “For a lot of things.” He tied off the end of the stitches then stripped the gloves from his hands in two slow movements. “You look tired, Peter. Maybe it would help you sleep.”

“I sleep okay.”

He wasn’t sure why it was such an offensive suggestion. Sedatives were a normal part of life, honestly, coming and going as the masters saw fit. If Bruce wanted to keep Peter calm to heal, or maybe so they could monitor him in case he had intentionally tried to run, well, wasn’t that his prerogative?

It was, truly, and yet something in Peter resisted.

“You don’t have to,” Bruce said with the barest slant of a smile. “I just know that sometimes it’s… easier to sleep.”

“It’s also easier to not fall off a building, but I don’t think I’m very good at easy.” Peter dropped his eyes even as he spoke, burrowing his fingers into the cloth on his thighs and gripping. “Sorry. I just meant-”

But Banner cut him off. “I wouldn’t say that’s your fault. I don’t think anything is ever easy around Tony.”

It wasn’t a new sentiment. Pepper had said much the same thing.

“Or Deadpool.”

Shock rocketed its way through Peter’s body and his gaze jerked back to Banner’s face. He had half convinced himself that Deadpool had been some figment of his imagination, some concussion-induced hallucination. How could someone like that be real? And the things he said, the many violent, nonsensical,  _ ridiculous _ things…

“It’s a strange life you’ve found yourself in, huh?” Banner asked. There was no pity or sympathy there, just wry observation. He patted Peter’s foot and tossed his shirt into his lap. “Get used to it, I guess. It’s kind of a thing here.”

Peter quietly shimmied his shirt back on, wincing against the painful pull of new stitches, as Banner stood and stretched. There was no mess where he had worked. Banner had been meticulous in putting everything away as soon as he could feasibly do so. Everything about the man was so contained that it piqued Peter’s interest.

Banner looked down at him then and some of that interest must have been plain on his face because the man cocked his head to the side. “Tony won’t be back for a while. Should I stay?”

Peter was almost tempted to say yes, make up some reason for it so he could peer a little closer at the strange, quiet man who turned into a raging monster for the greater good. There was something comfortable about Dr Banner, a radiant warmth that was almost unnoticeable even as it worked its way through your every muscle and tendon.

“No, I’m okay,” Peter finally said, gaining his own feet and backing up a step. “Dr Banner, sir.”

“Get some rest then.” Banner’s eyes flicked to the corner where Peter had been when the lights came on, then back to Peter now, where his hand touched lightly at his stomach through his shirt. “In the bed, please. I don’t want to have to fix any pulled stitches.”

“Yes, sir.” Peter said. “Dr Banner.”

\-----------------

Peter jerked awake, not sure what had woken him but senses already roving the room. There was a shadow in the doorway, dark gray outlined against a lighter one, and there was something moving to his right against the wall, a lot of movement-

“Hey. Just me.”

Tony’s voice carried through the space between them. The lights slid up to a soft wash over the room, just enough to see Tony in the doorway with his palms up and the slow fading of the opaque wall to translucence, starting from the bottom and drawing its slow way up like a curtain. Peter sucked in a deep breath and relaxed back onto his hands, relief settling deep in his stomach as he looked the man over, noting every visible bruise and every exhausted wrinkle.

“You okay?” Tony asked, and he looked so cautious as he took a step forward, like maybe he shouldn’t. Like maybe that was the wrong thing to do. Peter wanted that look to leave.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Peter said. He tried a smile and warmed inside at the way Tony immediately lost some of the tension, half-raised palms dropping as he moved forward in earnest to sit on the side of the bed at Peter’s hip.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Tony murmured, and then he was pulling Peter in, wrapping warm, heavy arms around him and drawing him in close. “Should’ve had Jarvis warn you. I’m just glad you’re okay. I’m so fucking glad you’re okay.”

It had been on the tip of Peter’s tongue to ask Tony what had happened, to question whether it was safe in the tower, whether they were staying or going, or if maybe just Tony would go and leave Peter behind. All his questions fell away as he was gathered up and in, mind clearing away to somewhere soft and tranquil. 

Tony’s hand scrunched into his hair, sliding into the strands and probing like Banner’s had but with less finesse and a little more insistence. Peter tucked his head into Tony’s shoulder and breathed away some of the nerves that had never left, settling the pieces of him that had been scattered from the moment the tower shook beneath his feet. It was a little something like heaven, like safety in a human form. He hadn’t realized just how tenuous the world had still felt until that moment.

“Bruce said you’re not too bad off, considering,” Tony was saying, freeing his hand from Peter’s hair to soothe down his spine then back up. Peter suppressed the shiver that wanted to twist through him.

“I’m okay. I heal.” Which was the truth of it. There wasn’t much use worrying. He wasn’t imminently dying, and he would heal. He always did. Tony, on the other hand- “You fell though.”

“Little bit. The ground caught me. I’m fine. Banner approved.” 

Tony was like a furnace against him, still damp with sweat and grit, and not for the first time that night Peter wondered where he had been. There was a lot to take care of, surely, but Peter had found himself waiting anyway until sleep had taken him at some point in the late evening, not expecting anything but maybe hoping.

“You came for me,” Peter said, not entirely sure which time he meant, now or after the fall. He wasn’t sure it mattered.

“Of course I did. I would have found you a lot faster if Deadpool hadn’t gotten involved.” Tony’s arms tightened around Peter as he said the name. “He didn’t do anything? Bruce said your injuries were all from the explosion and the fall, but if Deadpool did anything-”

“He didn’t,” Peter rushed to say. “He just talked at me.”

“He does that.”

“And fed me.”

“I saw.” Tony didn’t sound exactly pleased about it. Because it was Deadpool? Or because it was someone else at all?

_ Maybe he keeps you all to himself?  _ The echo of Deadpool’s voice said.

He didn’t want to think about that. It had been a thought he hadn’t wanted around Deadpool and he wanted it here even less, wound up in Tony’s arms. He pushed his mind in a different direction, grasping for something else to say, to tell Tony. He wanted to spill everything out but some of the things Deadpool had said and done… They weren’t  _ secrets _ but they were things that Peter found himself reluctant to give away.

“He took the collar off,” Peter confessed instead. Yanked it off, more like. Pinned Peter to a wall and pulled until it broke. It didn’t seem wise to tell Tony that part.

Tony drew away, frowning as he looked at Peter’s neck. “That’s where that went.” His hand reached up to touch where Peter had seen in the mirror that his neck was still red and irritated, calloused fingertip tracing where the collar had once been. It was gone but its ghost lived on in its place, leaving Peter feeling naked and exposed underneath. Everywhere Tony’s finger touched, though, tingled with warmth. Exposed didn’t seem so bad. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Peter said, but he wasn’t thinking about the mark anymore. 

The brush of Tony’s skin had set that spark in his belly off once again. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Tony’s face, the tired bow of his mouth and the way his eyes were so concerned as they inspected his neck. Peter tipped his head back a little more, unbidden, unsure why but wanting to draw him in further.

Tony’s gaze flicked to his face at the movement. “You good?”

Peter nodded, mouth dry.

“Bruce said you needed stitches.” Tony’s hand dropped to hover over Peter’s stomach, not quite touching the fabric of his shirt.

“Made friends with some glass,” Peter offered, trying just the tip of a smile through the staccato beat of his heart.

Tony didn’t smile back, but his hand dropped to touch the hem of Peter’s shirt. It surged through Peter like an ember in his veins, pushing through the rapidly dismounting fear and discomfort. He was suddenly, vividly aware that he was on Tony’s bed, neatly reclining on both hands, with Tony’s fingers beginning to slide just under the edge of his shirt.

“Can I see?” Tony asked, words slow and careful, eyes on Peter’s face.

Anything to have Tony’s hands and eyes on him more. Peter nodded, trying not to picture how Tony’s rough hands would look and feel sliding across his skin. He just wanted to see where Peter had been hurt. Nothing more.

“Tell me to stop if it hurts,” Tony cautioned, and then he was pushing Peter’s shirt up, fingers lifting it away from his skin as his hands went up, up, up.

“Dr Banner gave me pain medicine,” Peter said, swallowing hard as Tony’s fingers carefully pulled at one edge of the bandage. “I didn’t take it yet.”

Tony frowned and looked up to meet his eyes. “Why not?”

“To ask you.” He had kind of thought Tony would be happy about that. Medication was a big deal.

“If Bruce says you need it, you need it.” Tony, evidently, did not prescribe to the usual in this as in, well, everything else really. “Unless you don’t want to take it. But you don’t need my permission to decide that.”

“Okay,” Peter agreed, because that was easy. Easier now than it had been.

Tony was considering the stitches, the bandage pulled carefully to the side. “He did a good job. I mean it’s Bruce, of course he did a good job, but these are better than what he does on me.” Tony’s hand smoothed the bandage back down, quirking a smile at Peter. “I guess you’re probably a better patient than I am though.”

“I sat still for more than two seconds,” Peter said, “so yeah.”

“Hey! I already told you the lab doesn’t count. I’ve got important business in there.” But Tony was grinning as he said it, looking at Peter with suddenly rapt attention. He looked startled but in a good way, a relieved sort of surprise.

His hands had stopped moving where they had been touching carefully along the bruises, and Peter wasn’t sure why his words had had that effect on him but he thought maybe he liked it.

“You’re really okay,” Tony said after a moment, and he looked down at his hands to spread a palm over Peter’s ribs where bruises were blooming purple and black, hovering above the skin with radiant warmth. “How long will these take to heal?”

“Maybe a week?” Peter shivered as Tony finally touched the bruises, the barest brush of skin over skin, then lifted away. “It, um, kind of depends. On how much damage there is everywhere else.”

“Looks like a lot of damage,” Tony said darkly, face shadowed as he brushed over a patch of scraped skin at Peter’s clavicle, the wounds most of the way to healed but still red and angry.

“It’s not that bad,” Peter offered, tipping his head back just a little and opening an expanse of neck.

Tony took the space given, fingertips sliding over the red circle around his neck with a frown. “Bruce said that?”

“I can just heal from a lot worse.”

Tony’s eyes snapped to his own, concern and anger and sudden, sharp question hidden in their depths. No, not the reaction he wanted, not what he wanted Tony to do or feel or think right now. Things were going heavy and grim, and Peter was done with heavy and grim for the day. He wanted the warmth Tony had been bathing him in.

“The pain meds,” Tony said. “Where are they?”

Peter reached without thought, arm winding behind Tony so he could snag the back of Tony’s shirt with one hand, holding him in place. Tony could break away if he wanted, Peter wasn’t holding with that much strength, but he didn’t so much as twitch. They were so close now that he could feel Tony breathing against him, the rise and fall of his chest against Peter’s own. He never wanted it to end.

“Wait. Please?” he said, and he hated the thready sound of his voice in that moment, the way he sounded when he begged. “Can I-” He broke off before he could ask. Try again. “I don’t want them. Right now.”

Tony’s eyes searched his for several long seconds then roved over his face, hand sliding up to Peter’s jaw. “Fine,” he said, eyes following the path of his thumb as he rubbed carefully over a tender spot, “but don’t blame me when Bruce gives you that disappointed look.”

Tony didn’t know what he was doing to Peter. He couldn’t. Peter felt every brush of skin like a living thing swimming through him, lighting up everything inside him as it passed. All the tension from the day behind them had turned itself and ratcheted up, and it was so  _ good _ . Peter wanted Tony to keep touching him until he died.

Maybe he did know what he was doing. Tony’s expression shifted, some small piece replaced with trepidation like he had recognized the precipice they were perched on and was thinking better of it. There was still something there, though, beneath it all, a hidden thread of something that looked a whole lot like  _ want _ to Peter. There was no mistaking it. As Tony’s hand started to pull away, Peter caught it and pressed it back to his jaw, heart catching at the audacity of his own action.

And if he was in for a penny, he may as well be in for a pound.

In the split second where Tony hesitated, where his gaze got caught on Peter’s lips and his fingers slid against his jaw, Peter closed the few inches between them. He kissed Tony before Tony could tell him why he couldn’t. Nothing else could ever feel so good, it wasn’t possible, Tony’s lips and his hands and the warmth of him all across Peter’s front. Tony’s lips moved against his own and he felt every shift in them, breathed in the air Tony was breathing out, then he surged forward, helpless to stop it.

Tony wasn’t though. Tony placed one hand on his shoulder and the other at his waist and held firm as he pulled away. It ached. It hurt in some desperate place inside that Peter couldn’t touch for himself but something about Tony could, and did. It couldn’t end, not yet.

“Pleas,” Peter said, pawing at the hand at his hip and trying to arch toward the man, to get any bit of him back in contact. The stitches pulled but it was such a minor ache compared to the roiling frustration of want in his belly, and he thought he would do anything just to feel that pleasure again. “Dont stop?  _ Tony.” _

And Tony’s eyes went so, so dark. His pupils blew wide open and his body tensed, just like that, his whole body transforming in the space of two syllables. Peter grasped at Tony’s shirt and pulled, and he saw the break in Tony, could trace the cracks as they vibrated through him from head to toe. He was ready for it when Tony leaned back in and kissed him.

And when Tony was on, Tony was  _ on _ , in this as in everything else. All Peter could do was hold on with both hands around Tony’s waist and try to keep up, trying to absorb every bit of the man and the moment as he could. They fell back on the bed, Tony’s hand grasping Peter’s hair and tugging, just as he did on the couch but  _ more, _ firmer, with delicious intent. Peter whimpered against his lips. Why hadn’t Tony ever done it like this before? Why hadn’t Peter had any idea how much he would like it?

Peter wanted to touch too. He wanted to feel Tony’s skin beneath his palms, wanted to slide his hands wherever he wanted to put them, wherever his thoughts took him. His head was spinning with the feeling of Tony moving over him, lips wet and warm against his own, the hand in his hair and another pressing his hip into the mattress. Peter met the kiss wildly, desperate for more, anything Tony would give him.

His hands at Tony’s waist slipped under the shirt, sliding against skin gritty with dirt, hot against his palms. Tony made a sound like he was dying and drew away.

“Jesus,” Tony panted, pressing his head against Peter’s shoulder. “Fuck.”

He didn’t know why Tony had stopped but Peter wanted more. He skimmed the shirt up Tony’s back with his fingertips, shivering at just the thought of more skin opening up for him, his hands, his eyes. Tony shivered too and he thought maybe they would kiss again, or Tony would sit up and take the shirt off completely.

Instead when Tony sat up he reached behind himself and took Peter’s wrists in his own, pulling them around and pinning them carefully on either side of Peter’s head. Peter met his eyes, questioning, and his heart sank at the firm set of Tony’s jaw.

It was a no. Of course it was. It had always been a no and it always would be.

“We can’t do this,” Tony said.

“Why?” Peter asked, setting his own jaw to match.

“You’re hurt,” Tony said.

“Not that hurt.” It was true. He ached some but Dr Banner had cleared him, and he would heal. He always healed.

“You’re traumatized,” Tony continued. “You’re not even thinking straight.”

That wasn’t fair. Peter was thinking straight, or as straight as he always had. He knew what he wanted. It hadn’t changed since the last time he had asked for it.

But Tony was already drawing away, freeing Peter’s wrists and then his waist where Tony had perched above him, all the warmth of him gone in a moment. It was Tony that didn’t want it, he realized. And why would he? He could have anyone he wanted. The whole city would climb into bed with him even for just one night, and Peter had seen the articles, he knew Tony had taken advantage of that. Vigorously.

Tony stood and stepped away from the bed, smoothing his shirt down with a frown, hands rougher than they needed to be. He wasn’t looking at Peter anymore but he wasn’t exactly looking at anything else either, eyes unfocused with thought. He turned away and it sent a jolt through Peter, stamping down on the maelstrom inside with the sudden return of nerves.

“You’re leaving?” Peter asked, sitting up and clenching the blankets to keep himself from reaching for Tony instead.

It drew Tony out from his thoughts, blinking as he freed himself and looked at Peter again. The return of that attention was like a balm on his aching mind.

“I stink like the inside of the suit,” Tony said simply. “I need a shower.” He hesitated. “Did you want me back here? To sleep.”

It was one of many things, but the thought of Tony sleeping anywhere else was enough to set his heart racing, and not in a good way. Peter nodded once, lost for words to say just how little he wanted to sleep alone tonight even through the disappointment and the hurt.

“Okay. Go to sleep. I’ll be out soon.” Tony’s eyes flicked to Peter’s chest and away just as fast, and then he was turning and walking away.


End file.
